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THE  SOCIAL  PLAYS  OF 

ARTHUR  WING  PINERO 

Authorized  Library  Edition.    Four  Volwnes. 

EDITED  BY 

CLAYTON  HAMILTON 

Volume  I.     The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray: 
The  Notorious  Mrs.  Ebbsmith. 

Volume  II.   The  Gay  Lord  Quex: 
Iris. 

Volume  III.  Letty: 

His  House  in  Order. 

Volume  IV.  The  Thunderbolt: 
Mid-Channel. 

E.  P.  DUTTON  &  CO. 

681  FIFTH  AVENUE 

NEW  YORK 

sif"?:J«*777'7' 


THE    SOCIAL    PLAYS    OF 

ARTHUR  WING  PINERO 

EDITED  WITH  A  GENERAL  INTRODUCTION 
AND*  A  CRITICAL  PREFACE  TO  EACH  PLAY 

BY 

CLAYTON  HAMILTON 

MEMBER  OF  THE  NATIONAL  INSTITUTE  OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS 


THE  THUNDERBOLT 


MID-CHANNEL 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  DUTTON  &  GO. 

681  Fifth  Avenue 
1922 

oorww 


EDITORIAL  CONTRIBUTIONS  BY  CLAYTON  HAMILTON 

Copyright,  1932,  by 

E.  P.  Dutton  &  Co. 


THE  THUNDERBOLT 

Copyright,  iqoq,  by 

Arthur  W.  Pinero 


MID-CHANNEL 

Copyright,  1910,  by 

Arthur  Wing  Pinero 

n/i^l  '??"*  under'h'  l"1""*1'™ J'  Copyright  A  ct.     Performance  forbidden  and  right 
'/"Preset Malum  reserved      Application  for  the  right  to  perform  either  of  these  play,  mult  be 

t^llt  TZtZM'  B?kt'f,  C,°i  5  H,amiU<"t  Place'  Bo5"">-  Massachusetts ■      AtTen   on 
lows  Penalties  provided  by  law  for  any  infringement  of  the  author's  rights,  as fol- 

"Sec  4966:— Any  person  publicly  performing  or  representing  any  dramatic  or  musical 
compos.t.on  for  wh.ch  copyright  has  been  obtained,  without  the  consent  of  the  pro™  Heto 
oL=  Vk  T*  C  °l  mUS1Cal  co.mP"?«t>on,  or  his  heirs  and  assigns,  shall  be  liable  for  darn- 
el MlT  STh  ,lamfiageS  '",  &  Cafe,S, t0  ^  assessed  at  ^ch  sum,  not  less  than  one 
hundred  dollars  f,)r  the  first  and  fifty  dollars  for  every  subsequent  performance  as  to  the 
court  shall  appear  to  be  just.  If  the  unlawful  performance  and  represenTat"on'  be  wilful 
?£n  hi  Y0^  SUCh<  Pfer3°n  °r  PefSOnS  Sha"  be  «ui,ty  of  a  misdemeanor,  and  uponconv  - 
TUU60  Chap°]  *  pe"Jd  DOt  exceediQ3  one  year."-U.  S.  Revised  Statutes. 


•  •  • 


PRINTED  IN   THE   UNITED  STATES  OF   AMERICA 


PREFACE 

The  present  Library  Edition*  of  the  weightiest  and  most 
important  plays  of  Sir  Arthur  Pinero  has  been  edited  with 
the  kind  co-operation  of  the  author  himself;  his  secretary, 
Miss  Eveleen  Mills;  his  London  publisher,  Mr.  William 
Heinemann ;  and  his  American  publishers,  Messrs.  Walter 
H.  Baker  &  Co.,  of  Boston.  The  editor  is  especially  in- 
debted to  Mr.  F.  E.  Chase,  of  Walter  H.  Baker  &  Co.,  for 
generously  loaning  the  American  copyrights  of  the  plays 
that  have  been  selected  to  appear  in  this  Library  Edition. 

Clayton  Hamilton. 
New  York  City:  1922. 


c7  ^rrS 

y  (o  5  H 

CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Preface     v 

Introduction i 

The  Thunderbolt: — 

critical  preface 21 

TEXT 35 

Mid-Channel  : — 

critical  preface 279 

TEXT 295 

j 

\     Appendix 5°5 

! 
) 


INTRODUCTION 


INTRODUCTION  * 


A  word  should  be  said  in  explanation  of  the  reasons  which 
prompted  the  editor  to  apply  the  caption,  "Social  Plays,"  to 
the  particular  group  of  compositions  by  Sir  Arthur  Pinero 
selected  for  presentation  to  the  reading  public  in  this  Library 
Edition. 

In  the  first  place,  it  was  necessary  to  choose  a  label  which 
should  indicate  a  clear  distinction  between  the  eight  or  ten 
serious  and  weighty  dramas  of  Pinero  and  his  more  than 
thirty  essays  in  lighter  types  of  entertainment.  The  range  of 
Pinero,  in  subject-matter  and  in  mood,  has  been  unusually 
versatile  and  wide.  In  the  eighteen-eighties,  he  established 
a  new  standard  for  English  farce  with  the  Court  Theatre 
series,  which  included  The  Magistrate,  The  Schoolmistress, 
Dandy  Dick,  and  The  Cabinet  Minister,  and  was  equally 
successful  as  an  author  of  sentimental  comedies  of  the  type 
inherited  from  T.  W.  Robertson,  such  as  Sweet  Lavender 
and  Lady  Bountiful.  Obviously,  the  series  of  more  mo- 
mentous dramas  which  was  initiated  in  1893  with  The  Sec- 
ond Mrs.  Tanqueray  differs  from  these  earlier  undertakings 
not  only  in  magnitude  but  also  in  purpose;  and  this  same 
difference  in  intention  may  be  noted,  in  later  seasons,  between 
such  weighty  dramas,  on  the  one  hand,  as  Iris  and  Mid- 
Channel,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  such  charming  minor 
comedies  as  The  Princess  and  the  Butterfly  and  such  witty 
pieces  of  hilarity  as  Preserving  Mr.  Panmure. 

*  Copyright,  1922,  by  E.  P.  Dutton  &  Co. 

3 


4  PINERO'S  SO CI A L  PLAYS 

A  French  critic  would  classify  the  serious  plays  of  Pinero 
under  the  generic  term  of  drames,  and  would  let  the  matter 
go  at  that;  but  to  choose  a  more  specific  label  for  them  is 
not  an  easy  task.  They  cannot  be  classed  as  "tragedies," 
since  only  three  of  them — The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray,  Iris, 
and  Mid-Channel — have  a  tragic  ending.  Furthermore, 
though  each  of  these  three  plays  is  irrefragably  logical  within 
its  limits,  their  disastrous  terminations  seem  to  be  predestined 
mainly  by  the  antecedent  pattern,  and  lack,  a  little,  that  in- 
timation of  the  universal  which  we  demand  of  tragedy.  But 
neither  can  these  serious  dramas  of  Pinero  be  classed  as 
"comedies," — not  even  in  those  cases  when  their  subject- 
matter  is  most  clearly  estranged  from  the  tragic.  For  such 
a  term,  The  Gay  Lord  Qnex  is  too  sardonic  in  content, 
His  House  in  Order  is  too  harrowing,  and  The  Thunder- 
bolt is  too  terrible.  These  pieces  fulfill  the  purpose  that  is 
usually  sought  in  satiric  comedy ;  but  this  purpose  is  pursued 
with  a  theatrical  intensity  that  is  more  nearly  tragic  than 
comic  in  its  mood. 

In  seeking  a  definitive  caption  for  these  dramas  which  are 
neither  comedies  nor  tragedies,  the  editor  was  reminded  of 
Henrik  Ibsen's  statement  in  regard  to  Hedda  Gabler, — 
"What  I  principally  wanted  to  do  was  to  depict  human 
beings,  human  emotions,  and  human  destinies,  upon  a  ground- 
work of  certain  of  the  social  conditions  and  principles  of  the 
present  day."  I  have  previously  called  attention  to  this 
statement  in  my  critical  preface  to  The  Gay  Lord  Quex;  but 
it  seems  to  me  to  describe  very  aptly  the  abiding  purpose 
of  Pinero  in  all  of  his  most  weighty  and  important  plays. 

In  a  chapter  on  the  modern  social  drama,  in  The  Theory 
of  the  Theatre,  I  have  stated  that  only  three  distinct  types 
of  serious,  or  tragic,  drama  have  thus  far  been  developed 
in  the  theatre  of  the  world.  The  ancient,  or  Greek,  type 
exhibits  the  individual  in  conflict  with  destiny ;  the  mediaeval, 
or  Elizabethan  type,  exhibits  the  individual  in  conflict  with 
the  inhibitions  and  defects  of  his  own  character;  and  the 


INTRODUCTION  5 

modern  type  exhibits  the  hero  in  conflict  with  his  social  en- 
vironment. To  repeat  once  more  the  words  of  Ibsen,  the 
modern  drama  endeavours  "to  depict  human  beings,  human 
emotions,  and  human  destinies,  upon  a  groundwork  of  cer- 
tain of  the  social  conditions  and  principles  of  the  present 
day."  Society  has  latterly  been  substituted  for  an  external 
destiny,  or  an  internal  predestination,  as  the  arch-antagonist 
of  the  individual  in  the  conflict  of  the  drama. 

It  is  in  this  particular  sense  that  the  serious  dramas  of 
Pinero  may  appropriately  be  described  as  "Social  Plays." 
Certain  commentators  have  objected  to  this  application  of 
the  term,  on  the  ground  that  Sir  Arthur  is  not  primarily 
concerned,  like  some  of  his  contemporaries,  with  an  extra- 
theatrical  endeavour  to  solve  the  current  problems  of  society. 
It  is  true,  of  course,  that  Pinero's  plays  are  not  "social"  in 
the  narrow  and  restricted  sense  which  this  adjective  assumes 
when  one  applies  it  to  such  pieces  as  Die  Weber,  by  Ger- 
hardt  Hauptmann,  Les  Avaries,  by  Eugene  Brieux,  Justice, 
by  John  Galsworthy,  or  even  Getting  Married,  by  George 
Bernard  Shaw.  In  Hauptmann's  justly  celebrated  drama, 
the  customary  interest  in  the  individual  is  almost  entirely 
submerged  beneath  a  newly-awakened  interest  in  the  group 
as  a  dramatic  factor  in  the  conflict  of  society.  Brieux 
employs  the  theatre  mainly  as  a  medium  for  calling  the 
attention  of  the  public  to  certain  errors  and  iniquities  of  the 
prevailing  social  system  which  demand  immediate  correction. 
Mr.  Galsworthy,  also,  is  much  more  deeply  interested  in  the 
problems  of  society  than  he  is  interested  in  the  problems  of 
the  individual.  In  Justice,  for  example,  he  deliberately  di- 
verts attention  from  his  inconspicuous  and  unimportant  hero 
to  that  heartless  machinery  of  the  law  which  pitilessly  grinds 
this  weak  protagonist  to  pieces.  The  witty  Mr.  Shaw  is 
ever  ready  with  some  novel  panacea  for  the  reformation  of 
society,  and,  in  recent  years,  has  used  the  theatre  mainly  as 
a  lecture-platform. 

These   extra-theatrical   purposes — laudable   as  they  are — 


6  PINERO'S  SOCIAL  PLAYS 

stand  utterly  apart  from  the  intention  of  Pinero.  He  applies 
the  ancient  and  honourable  maxim  of  "art  for  art's  sake," 
and  continues  to  make  plays  for  the  sake  of  making  plays, 
and  for  no  other  and  extraneous  purpose.  In  imagining  a 
struggle  between  human  beings  and  social  conditions,  his 
interest  remains  always  on  the  side  of  the  human  beings  and 
is  never  diverted  to  the  side  of  the  social  conditions.  He 
conceives  a  play  primarily  as  an  exhibition  of  character  in 
action, — upon  a  groundwork,  as  Ibsen  said,  of  present-day 
society.  Society  affords  the  setting  and  the  background  for 
his  serious  dramas;  but  the  forefront  of  the  stage  is  always 
occupied  by  individual  actors  who  are  interesting  in  and  for 
themselves. 

In  the  terminology  of  dramatic  criticism,  the  adjective 
"social"  had  long  been  applied  to  the  plays  of  such  artistic 
ancestors  of  Pinero  as  Henrik  Ibsen,  Alexandre  Dumas  fils, 
and  Emile  Augier, — before  the  advent  of  the  thesis-plays  of 
Brieux,  the  propaganda-plays  of  Mr.  Galsworthy,  or  the 
pamphlet-plays  of  Mr.  Shaw.  The  word  "social"  should 
not  be  reduced  to  too  narrow  a  connotation,  lest  an  interest 
in  socialism  should  be  mistaken  for  an  interest  in  society. 
Any  drama  which  depicts  a  conflict  between  individual  char- 
acter and  social  environment  may  appropriately  be  described 
as  a  "social  drama,"  whether  it  casts  its  emphasis  on  the  side 
of  society  or  on  the  side  of  the  individual;  and  it  was  this 
principle  which  prompted  the  editor  to  choose  the  caption, 
"Social  Plays,"  as  a  convenient  label  for  distinguishing  the 
weightier  compositions  of  Sir  Arthur  Pinero  from  his  numer- 
ous delightful  essays  in  lighter  types  of  entertainment. 

II 

At  the  date  when  this  Introduction  is  written  [January, 
1922],  Sir  Arthur  Pinero  is  sixty-six  years  old  and  has 
already  contributed  forty-eight  plays  to  five  successive  decades 
of  the  English  theatre.     For  this  reason,  a  regrettable  habit 


INTRODUCTION  7 

has  grown  up,  among  several  of  our  younger  commentators, 
of  writing  about  Pinero  in  the  past  tense  and  pigeon-holing 
his  plays  as  products  of  the  nineteenth  century.  For  a  man 
of  sixty-six,  Sir  Arthur  is  exceptionally  vigorous,  both  in 
body  and  in  mind,  and  there  is  therefore  ample  reason  to 
expect  him  to  compose  several  important  plays  in  the  years 
that  are  to  come;  but,  even  if  his  career  might  already  be 
regarded  as  completed,  a  glance  at  the  curve  of  its  ascension 
would  show  that  it  did  not  reach  its  grand  climacteric  until 
the  close  of  the  first  decade  of  the  twentieth  century. 

Pinero 's  compositions  in  the  eighteen-seventies  were  merely 
essays  in  apprenticeship ;  but  in  the  middle  of  the  eighteen- 
eighties  he  established  himself,  with  The  Magistrate,  as  a 
master  of  farce.  Before  the  end  of  the  same  decade,  the  great 
success  of  his  sentimental  comedy,  Siveet  Lavender,  caused 
him  to  be  regarded  at  that  early  date  as  the  leading  English 
playwright  of  his  generation.  At  the  outset  of  the  eighteen- 
nineties,  he  deliberately  chose  to  attempt  the  long  step  upward 
from  the  level  of  the  popular  playwright  to  the  level  of  the 
serious  dramatist ;  and  with  The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray,  in 
1893,  he  initiated  the  modern  English  drama.  It  may  be 
questioned  if  Pinero  has  surpassed  in  any  of  his  subsequent 
endeavours  the  technical  efficiency  of  that  epoch-making 
composition;  but  there  can  be  no  question  that  three  or  four 
of  his  later  plays  have  been  more  important  in  their  content 
and  more  monumental  in  their  execution.  Several  of  Sir 
Arthur's  most  interesting  and  successful  compositions  were 
written  in  the  eighteen-nineties ;  but  if  any  commentator 
were  confronted  with  the  hypothetic  task  of  rescuing  from 
the  iniquity  of  oblivion  a  single  ten-year  period  of  this 
author's  long-continued  activity,  he  would  choose  without 
question  the  first  decade  of  the  twentieth  century.  Pinero 
began  this  decade  with  Iris  [1901]  and  concluded  it  with 
The  Thunderbolt  [1908]  and  Mid-Channel  [1909]. 

To  controvert  the  frequently  repeated  statements  of  care- 
less commentators  that  Pinero  should  be  dated  as  a  dram- 


8  PINERO'S  SOCIAL  PLAYS 

atist  of  the  nineteenth  century,  it  may  be  noted — as  an 
historic  fact — that  the  two  great  plays  which  are  presented 
to  the  reading  public  in  the  present  volume  were  written 
more  recently  than  the  masterpieces  of  any  of  Sir  Arthur's 
nearest  rivals  in  the  contemporary  British  theatre.  The 
monumental  merit  of  Mid-Channel  as  a  work  of  art  is  not, 
of  course,  increased  by  the  accidental  circumstance  that  it  was 
written  so  recently  as  1909;  but  commentators  who  are 
tempted  to  employ  the  past  tense  in  considering  the  theatre 
of  Pinero  may  be  convinced  of  error  by  examining  the  dates 
which  follow.  Mr.  Henry  Arthur  Jones,  the  only  con- 
temporary British  dramatist  who  was  born  before  Pinero, 
produced  his  masterpiece,  Michael  and  His  Lost  Angel,  in 
1896.  Candida,  the  masterpiece  of  Mr.  George  Bernard 
Shaw,  was  produced  in  1895.  Nineteen  hundred  and  five  is 
the  date  of  Sir  James  Barrie's  greatest  play,  Alice  Sit-by-the 
Fire,  and  also  of  Mr.  Granville  Barker's  greatest  play,  The 
Voysey  Inheritance;  and  Mr.  John  Galsworthy  produced  his 
masterpiece,  entitled  Strife,  in  1 909, — the  same  year  in  which 
Mid-Channel  was  set  forth. 

It  is  apparent,  therefore,  that  Pinero,  though  older  than 
any  of  his  rivals,  with  the  single  exception  of  Mr.  Henry 
Arthur  Jones,  has  surpassed  them  not  only  at  the  outset  but 
also  toward  the  latter  end  of  his  career.  The  two  plays 
presented  in  the  present  volume — The  Thunderbolt  and  Mid- 
Channel — may  already  be  regarded  as  the  two  greatest  plays 
of  British  authorship  that  have  been  given  to  the  world  in 
the  first  two  decades  of  the  twentieth  century;  for  neither  of 
these  impressive  compositions  have  been  surpassed  by  any 
English  playwright,  old  or  young,  in  the  decade  that  has 
elapsed  since  1909. 

Ill 

To  complete  the  record  of  Sir  Arthur  Pinero's  career  to 
the  time  of  the  writing  of  this  Introduction,  a  few  words 


INTRODUCTION  9 

must  be  appended  in  appreciation  of  the  plays  that  he  has 
written  since  1909,  the  date  of  the  production  of  Mid- 
Channel. 

I  have  previously  stated  that  Preserving  Mr.  Panmure, — 
a  farce  which  was  first  presented  in  London,  at  the  Comedy 
Theatre,  on  January  19th,  191 1, — was  undertaken  frankly 
as  a  vacationary  task,  in  order  that  the  author  might  rest 
his  mind  from  a  momentary  weariness  imposed  by  the  com- 
position of  The  Thunderbolt  and  Mid-Channel  in  two  suc- 
cessive* years.  The  merits  of  Preserving  Mr.  Panmure  are 
mainly  technical.  The  material  of  this  comic  play  is  trivial 
and  slight;  but  the  development  displays  an  ingenuity  of 
which  no  other  craftsman  than  Pinero  could  be  capable. 
The  third  act,  which  is  fabricated  out  of  next  to  nothing, 
is  a  triumph  of  deft  manipulation.  The  pattern  as  a  whole, 
however,  is  imperfect,  because  the  fourth  act,  though  enter- 
taining in  itself,  does  not  work  out  the  antecedent  project 
to  a  logical  completion.  It  is,  in  effect,  an  independent  one- 
act  play,  in  which  three  characters  inherited  from  the  pre- 
ceding incompleted  comedy  happen,  by  a  lucky  providence, 
to  reappear.  Of  this  fourth  act — as  in  the  instance  of  the 
last  act  of  The  Profligate — two  versions  are  extant: — the 
one  originally  shown  in  London,  and  an  alternative  text, 
prepared  at  the  request  of  the  late  Charles  Frohman,  for 
the  first  production  of  the  play  in  New  York,  which  took 
place  at  the  Lyceum  Theatre  on  February  27th,  191 2. 

Preserving  Mr.  Panmure  is  designed  as  a  satire  of  that 
sanctimonious  hypocrisy  which  may  be  observed  in  many  a 
British  household.  The  stage-set,  which  represents  the  inner 
hall  of  a  house  in  the  country,  is  built  almost  entirely  of 
glass, — as  a  sort  of  warning  to  the  witty  spectator  that  it  is 
sometimes  dangerous  to  throw  stones.  The  smug  and 
unctuous  Mr.  Panmure,  at  the  behest  of  his  religious-minded 
wife,  is  accustomed  to  preach  a  weekly  sermon  to  his  as- 
sembled servants,  and  expects  an  absolute  respectability  of 
behaviour  from  his  guests.     At  a  loss  for  a  subject  for  his 


IO  PINERO'S  SOCIAL  PLAYS 

"sermonette,"  he  is  aided  by  the  pretty  governess  of  his  little 
daughter,  and,  in  an  outburst  of  approbation,  kisses  her.  A 
kiss,  in  the  Panmure  household,  is  a  crime.  Panmure  is 
immediately  remorseful;  and  the  governess  is  so  perturbed 
that  she  unwittingly  reveals  the  scandal  to  Mrs.  Panmure's 
aunt.  The  latter  soon  communicates  the  dire  intelligence  to 
all  the  other  women  in  the  house, — each  of  whom,  since  the 
governess  refuses  to  betray  the  name  of  her  assailant  (al- 
though she  expressly  exonerates  Mr.  Panmure),  at  once 
suspects  her  own  husband,  or  fiance,  as  the  case  may  be,  of 
being  the  guilty  man.  Panmure  himself  is  required  by  his 
wife  to  cross-question  all  the  other  men  and  to  reprove  them 
each  and  all  for  the  offence  that  they  have  not  committed. 
Two  of  the  guests,  an  M.  P.  named  Stulkely  and  his  sec- 
retary named  Woodhouse,  discover  that  Panmure  is  the 
culprit  before  he  comes  to  lecture  them.  They  are  thereby 
primed  to  call  him  down ;  and  after  they  have  beaten  him 
into  deserved  abjection,  Woodhouse  chivalrously  takes  the 
guilt  upon  himself  and  makes  a  false  confession  to  the  as- 
sembled women.  Thereupon,  the  governess  destroys  the 
manuscript  of  Panmure's  prospective  sermon,  and  sends  him 
forth  to  preach  impromptu  to  the  servants. 

The  mood  of  this  farce  is  one  of  irresponsible  vivacity,  and 
several  of  the  incidents  are  playfully  preposterous.  Yet  the 
people  in  the  play  are  rendered  not  as  caricatures  but  as 
characters:  they  are  much  more  true  to  life  than  the  figures 
usually  shown  in  farce.  The  dialogue,  throughout,  is  bril- 
liantly witty.  The  work  as  a  whole  affords  an  interesting 
instance  of  fine  craftsmanship  applied  to  trivial  material. 

IV 

Pinero's  next  effort  was  a  comedy  of  much  more  serious 
import.  This  was  The  "Mind  the  Paint"  Girl,  which  was 
first  produced  in  London,  at  the  Duke  of  York's  Theatre, 
on  February  17th,   1912. 


INTRODUCTION  n 

There  is  a  type  of  play  whose  purpose  is  not  so  much  to 
exhibit  character  through  action  as  to  exhibit  environment 
through  character.  The  plot  is  comparatively  unimportant, 
and  the  people  of  the  play  are  less  interesting  on  their  own 
account  than  on  account  of  the  social  atmosphere  in  which 
they  breathe  their  daily  breath.  This  social  atmosphere  is 
what  the  author  is  aiming  to  depict;  and,  in  pursuance  of  this 
purpose,  he  may  even  dare  to  sacrifice  the  all-but-indispen- 
sable element  of  a  tense  and  vital  struggle  between  human 
wills. 

In  order  to  appreciate  The  "Mind  the  Paint"  Girl,  we 
should  understand  at  the  outset  that  the  aim  of  the  author 
was  to  exhibit  a  genre  study,  and  not  to  build  a  drama,  in 
the  ordinary  sense  of  the  term.  So  many  young  peers  had 
recently  married  show-girls  that  it  became  important  that 
some  serious  British  writer  should  discuss  the  advantages 
and  disadvantages  of  these  marital  experiments;  and  Sir 
Arthur  Pinero,  who  had  already  painted  a  sympathetic  pic- 
ture of  the  stage-life  of  other  days  in  Trelawny  of  the 
"Wells,"  was  obviously  the  man  to  undertake  a  study  of  the 
glittering  and  artificial  life  that  was  lived  so  shallowly  and 
so  alluringly  in  and  about  Mr.  George  Edwardes's  Gaiety 
Theatre,  at  a  period  when  the  chorus  of  the  Gaiety  was 
furnishing  more  than  one  of  the  mothers  of  the  future  mem- 
bers of  the  House  of  Lords. 

Of  the  four  acts  of  The  "Mind  the  Paint"  Girl,  only 
one — the  third — is  designed  to  be  dramatic.  The  entire 
struggle  of  the  play  is  compressed  into  a  single  vital  scene; 
and  all  that  precedes  this  sudden  climax  should  be  classed 
and  judged  as  genre  painting.  The  heroine,  Lily  Parradell, 
is  the  reigning  beauty  of  the  Pandora  Theatre,  and  has  won 
her  nickname  by  singing  a  popular  topical  song  called 
"Mind  the  Paint."  In  the  first  act  we  meet  her  in  her 
home,  and  in  the  second  act  we  see  her  in  the  theatre.  The 
author's  purpose  in  these  first  two  acts  is  to  make  us  inti- 
mately acquainted  with  the  daily  environment  of  such  a  girl, 


12  PINERO'S  SOCIAL  PLAYS 

both  in  and  out  of  the  playhouse.  Over  thirty  typical  char- 
acters are  set  before  us,  and  all  of  them  are  sketched  with 
masterly  and  rapid  strokes.  After  two  acts  we  know  them 
intimately,  and  we  begin  to  realize  that  the  heroine  must  be 
at  heart  a  girl  of  quite  extraordinary  worth  to  have  kept 
herself  unspotted  from  this  world  of  the  Pandora  Theatre. 

She  is,  indeed,  a  charming  person.  Her  character  is  re- 
vealed, bit  by  bit,  in  little  sudden  deeds  and  unexpected 
speeches,  until  she  stands  before  us  every  inch  alive.  In  the 
entire  gallery  of  his  invention,  Sir  Arthur  has  never  exhibited 
a  more  perfect  portrait;  and  Lily  is  one  of  the  most  lovable 
of  all  his  women.  It  is  a  higher  achievement  to  create  a 
human  being  than  to  build  a  plot;  and  the  figure  of  Lily 
Parradell  alone  would  be  sufficient  to  justify  the  composition 
of  this  comedy  of  atmosphere. 

In  the  dramatic  third  act,  two  lovers  battle  for  her  favour. 
One,  the  Viscount  Farncombe,  is  a  young  nobleman  who 
has  known  her  only  a  week:  the  other,  Captain  Jeyes,  has 
been  playing  the  faithful  dog  to  her  for  many  months  and 
has  given  up  his  career  in  the  army  so  that  he  may  haunt 
the  theatre  every  night.  When  Lord  Farncombe  asks  Lily 
to  marry  him,  she  replies  by  telling  him  the  entire  story  of 
her  life,  in  order  to  prove  to  him  that  her  humble  origin  and 
defective  bringing-up  would  unfit  her  to  become  a  peeress. 
Jeyes  then  breaks  in,  and  upbraids  her  violently  for  having 
wrecked  his  life;  and,  partly  as  a  reparation  to  the  Captain, 
but  mainly  from  a  desire  to  defend  the  Viscount  from  ruin- 
ing his  life  in  turn  for  her  sake,  Lily  refuses  the  offer  of 
Lord  Farncombe  and  agrees  to  marry  Captain  Jeyes. 

In  the  next  act,  which  may  be  regarded  as  a  sort  of 
epilogue,  the  Captain  has  decided  to  retire  to  South  Africa, 
and  generously  hands  the  "Mind  the  Paint"  girl  over  to  the 
Viscount.  This  act  is  psychologically  true;  but  the  impres- 
sion cannot  be  avoided  that  the  author  has  been  pulling  wires 
to  bring  about  a  happy  ending. 

The  piece  is  notable  mainly  for  the  veracity  of  the  genre 


INTRODUCTION  13 

painting  of  its  first  two  acts,  and  for  the  literary  tact  of 
its  dialogue.  Lily's  recital  of  her  career — as  Mr.  William 
Archer  has  enthusiastically  said — is  one  of  the  finest  single 
passages  of  writing  that  Sir  Arthur  Pinero  has  ever  penned ; 
and  though  The  "Mind  the  Paint"  Girl  cannot  be  ranked 
with  such  moving  and  soul-searching  dramas  as  Iris  and 
Mid-Channel,  it  is,  in  its  own  way,  an  achievement  fully 
worthy  of  its  author's  fame. 


After  turning  out  a  couple  of  one-act  plays  of  merely 
minor  interest,  Pinero  set  himself  for  the  undertaking  of 
another  major  comedy.  The  Widow  of  Wasdale  Head 
[1912]  was  a  ghost-story  in  one  act,  composed  to  order  for 
the  late  Charles  Frohman,  who  desired  to  exhibit  at  the 
Duke  of  York's  Theatre  a  programme  made  up  of  three  new 
one-act  plays, — one  by  Pinero,  one  by  Barrie,  and  one  by 
Shaw.  Playgoers  [191 3]  was  a  much  more  sprightly  com- 
position in  the  one-act  form.  In  this  little  piece,  the  mistress 
of  a  household  conceived  the  happy  thought  of  giving  her 
servants  a  good  time,  and  also  contributing  to  their  much- 
desired  education,  by  sending  them  systematically  to  the 
theatre;  but  the  servants  soon  astounded  her  by  rebelling 
violently  against  this  cruel  and  inhuman  punishment. 

The  Big  Drum,  a  comedy  in  four  acts,  was  conceived 
before  the  sudden  launching  of  the  German  hordes  against 
the  quiet  camps  of  civilization;  and  the  success  of  this 
worthy  and  interesting  drama  was  disturbed  by  that  chaos 
in  theatrical  conditions  which  resulted  from  the  unexpected 
outbreak  of  the  war  of  the  nations.  The  Big  Drum  was 
first  produced  in  London,  at  the  St.  James's  Theatre,  on 
September  1st,  1 91 5,  with  the  late  Sir  George  Alexander 
in  the  leading  part.  The  time  looked  dark  for  England; 
and,  in  a  moment  of  apparent  national  calamity,  the  theatre- 
going  public   resented   the   "unhappy"  ending  of  the  piece. 


i4  PINERO'S  SOCIAL  PLAYS 

This  ending  was  "unhappy"  only  in  the  sense  that  the  lovers 
were  logically  parted  in  the  final  moments  of  the  drama; 
but — as  the  author  has  explained  in  print — "pressure  was 
forthwith  put  upon  me  to  reconcile  Philip  and  Ottoline  at 
the  finish,  and  at  the  third  performance  of  the  play  the 
curtain  fell  upon  the  picture,  violently  and  crudely  brought 
about,  of  Ottoline  in  Philip's  arms." 

This  was  the  third  time  in  his  career  that  Pinero  had 
been  persuaded  to  reconsider  the  logical  termination  of  a 
play  in  response  to  an  appeal  from  the  public, — the  other 
two  instances  having  occurred  in  the  case  of  The  Profligate 
and  in  the  case  of  Preserving  Mr.  Panmurc.  In  all  three 
instances,  however,  Sir  Arthur  has  insisted  that  the  pub- 
lished texts  should  perpetuate  a  record  of  his  original  in- 
tention. The  printed  text  of  The  Big  Drum  concludes 
with  the  primary  ending  which,  in  the  actual  perform- 
ance, was  discarded  after  the  second  night.  In  explaining 
this  diversity,  Sir  Arthur  has  stated: — "I  made  the  altera- 
tion against  my  principles  and  against  my  conscience,  and 
yet  not  altogether  unwillingly.  For  we  live  in  depressing 
times;  and  perhaps  in  such  times  it  is  the  first  duty  of  a 
writer  for  the  stage  to  make  concessions  to  his  audiences 
and,  above  everything,  to  try  to  afford  them  a  complete,  if 
brief,  distraction  from  the  gloom  which  awaits  them  outside 
the  theatre." 

The  altered  version  of  The  Big  Drutn  ran  at  the  St. 
James's  Theatre  for  a  good  part  of  the  season ;  but  the  piece 
was  not  so  easily  successful  as  it  might  have  been  in  days 
less  dark.  Considered  solely  in  respect  to  its  inherent  merits, 
this  four-act  comedy  is  the  best  play  that  has  been  written 
by  Pinero  since  Mid-Channel.  Though  conceived  primarily 
as  a  satiric  composition,  it  is  seriously  and  almost  strenuously 
dramatic.  Not  only  does  it  titillate  a  critical  and  antithetic 
sense  of  laughter,  but  it  also  evokes  the  more  impressive 
tribute  of  sympathetic  tears. 

In  The  Big  Drum,  Pinero  satirises  once  again  the  vulgarity 


INTRODUCTION  15 

of  a  family  of  social  climbers.  The  family  of  which  Sir 
Randle  Filson  is  the  head  is  very  rich  in  new-made  money, 
and  is  attempting  to  buy  its  way  into  the  conservative  circles 
of  good  society.  The  spectacle  of  this  endeavour  affords  a 
theme  for  satire  to  Philip  Mackworth,  a  promising  young 
novelist,  who  is  the  hero  of  the  comedy.  Mackworth  con- 
ceives a  new  novel — entitled  "The  Big  Drum" — which  he 
describes  as  follows: — "It's  an  attempt  to  portray  the  struggle 
for  notoriety — for  self-advertisement — we  see  going  on 
around  us  to-day.  It  shows  a  vast  crowd  of  men  and  women 
forcing  themselves  upon  public  attention  without  a  shred  of 
modesty,  fighting  to  obtain  it  as  if  they  are  fighting  for 
bread  and  meat.  It  shows  how  dignity  and  reserve  have 
been  cast  aside  as  virtues  that  are  antiquated  and  outworn, 
until  half  the  world — the  world  that  should  be  orderly, 
harmonious,  beautiful — has  become  an  arena  for  the  exhibi- 
tion of  vulgar  ostentation  or  almost  superhuman  egoism — a 
cockpit  resounding  with  raucous  voices  bellowing  one  against 
the  other!" 

This  tilting  satirist,  Philip  Mackworth,  has  long  been  in 
love  with  the  widowed  Ottoline,  Comtesse  de  Chaumie, 
who  is  the  only  daughter  of  the  moneyed  and  drum-beating 
Sir  Randle  Filson.  She  promises  to  marry  him;  and,  when 
her  climbing  parents  object  that  Mackworth  is  penniless  and 
unsuccessful,  this  daring  hero  agrees  to  stake  the  outcome 
of  his  suit  upon  the  popular  success  of  his  next  novel,  "The 
Big  Drum."  This  novel,  shortly  after  the  date  of  its  initial 
publication,  becomes  surprisingly  commercial.  Thousands  of 
copies  are  sold  within  a  month.  All  goes  well  until  the 
snooping  brother  of  the  Comtesse  Ottoline  discovers,  with 
the  aid  of  hired  detectives,  that  most  of  the  sold  copies  have 
been  stored  in  bulk  in  a  cellar  in  the  suburbs.  It  transpires, 
ultimately,  that  Ottoline  has  bought  up  several  thousand 
copies  of  "The  Big  Drum"  in  order  to  make  it  seem  suc- 
cessful. But  this  deed  of  intended  generosity,  instead  of 
winning  Mackworth's  heart,   is  the  one  thing  that  finally 


16  PINERO'S  SOCIAL  PLAYS 

convinces  him  that  Ottoline  is  irremediably  vulgar.  He  still 
longs  so  ardently  to  marry  her  that  he  is  willing  to  renounce 
his  principles,  and  even  to  renounce  his  art,  in  order  to 
reconcile  his  standards  with  those  of  this  unprincipled  and 
fascinating  woman ;  but,  in  the  end  of  all,  she  says  farewell 
to  him  forever,  because  she  sees  more  clearly  than  the  novelist 
himself  the  underlying  falsity  of  their  relation. 

VI 

In  the  midst  of  the  Great  War,  Pinero  projected  a  fan- 
tastic comedy,  in  three  acts,  entitled  The  Freaks.  This  "idyll 
of  Suburbia"  was  first  produced  in  London,  at  the  New 
Theatre,  on  February  14th,  1918.  It  was  not  successful,  and 
was  withdrawn  from  the  boards  on  March  30th. 

In  imagining  this  piece,  Sir  Arthur  went  far  afield  in  the 
endeavour  to  entertain  a  war-worn  public.  He  even  went  so 
far  as  to  trespass  upon  provinces  held  hitherto,  by  right  of 
eminent  domain,  by  his  friend  and  colleague,  Sir  James 
Barrie.  The  Freaks  was  a  play  that  ought  to  have  been 
written  by  Barrie  if  it  were  to  be  written  at  all.  The  mild 
and  gentle  Mrs.  Herrick,  who  dwells  in  Mole  Park,  a  peace- 
ful suburb  of  London,  inherits  from  her  brother,  who  had 
run  a  circus  in  America,  the  duty  of  being  kind  to  several 
members  of  his  "world-renowned  mammoth  international 
hippodrome  and  museum  of  living  marvels."  To  fulfill  the 
stipulations  of  her  brother's  will,  Mrs.  Herrick  invites  to 
visit  her,  upon  a  quiet  week-end,  a  group  of  "living  marvels," 
composed  of  a  human  skeleton,  a  giant,  two  dwarfs,  and  an 
acrobatic  lady  who  is  able  to  tie  herself  into  intricate  knots. 
These  freaks  arrive  in  Mole  Park,  and  scandalise  the  neigh- 
bours; and  when  the  giant  suddenly  falls  ill  and  becomes 
house-ridden,  the  suburban  villa  of  Mrs.  Herrick  is  made 
a  focus  for  inquisitorial  eyes.  The  purpose  of  the  play  is 
to  emphasise  the  arch-satiric  point  that  the  physical  "freaks" 
of  the  circus  are,  in  reality,  less  freakish  than  those  suburban 


INTRODUCTION  17 

citizens  who  gape  and  glare  at  them  in  their  moments  of 
basical  humanity.  But  the  author,  not  content  with  estab- 
lishing this  primary  thesis  of  his  satire,  has  made  the  play 
unplausible  by  attempting  to  carry  even  further  the  dramatic 
appeal  of  his  group  of  circus  "freaks"  for  public  sympathy. 
Mrs.  Herrick  has  a  daughter  and  a  son  who  are  depicted 
as  absolutely  normal;  but  the  author  asks  us  to  believe  that 
Sheila  Herrick  falls  in  love  with  the  human  skeleton  and 
that  Ronald  Herrick  falls  in  love  with  the  illiterate  lady  of 
the  circus  who  is  able  to  tie  herself  into  knots.  If  these 
assumptions  might  be  granted,  the  patterned  outcome  of  the 
comedy  would  be  more  effective  than  it  actually  is.  The 
"freaks"  decide,  as  a  matter  of  duty,  to  tear  themselves  away 
from  the  temptation  to  revert  to  the  human  privileges  of 
ordinary  life,  by  accepting  a  peremptory  engagement  to 
appear  in  public  with  a  circus  that  is  performing  half  the 
world  away.  This  heroical  decision  brings  about  a  parting 
that  is  undeniably  pathetic.  But,  when  the  rupture  comes, 
the  critical  spectator  is  still  inclined  to  wonder  whether  the 
antecedent  complication  was  not,  after  all,  fortuitous. 


VII 

During  the  early  months  of  1 9 19,  Pinero  composed  a  new 
comedy,  entitled  Quick  Work:  A  Story  of  a  War  Marriage. 
The  title  is  explained  in  a  summary  line  that  is  spoken  by  the 
heroine  in  the  second  act, — "Met  in  January,  married  in 
February,  and  now — only  June."  The  sprightly  heroine, 
Dordine,  has  married  in  haste  a  "hero"  of  the  war,  Captain 
Neil  Whitway.  Three  months  later,  when  her  most  inti- 
mate friends  embrace  the  quickest  opportunity  to  congratu- 
late her  on  her  marriage,  she  informs  them  that  it  has  al- 
ready turned  out  badly  and  that  she  is  seeking  separate 
quarters  for  her  husband  in  order  to  establish  legal  grounds 
for  suing  him  for  divorce  on  the  basis  of  desertion.  Captain 
Whitway  and   Dordine,   though   "incompatible  in  temper," 


18  PINERO'S  SOCIAL  PLAYS 

are  evidently  destined  to  be  friends;  for  they  collaborate 
without  apparent  friction  in  the  necessary  task  of  setting  up 
a  separate  establishment  for  the  disappointed  "hero"  who  has 
failed  to  qualify  as  a  husband.  The  basic  facts  of  the  story 
are  assumed  in  retrospect;  and  the  author  devotes  the  entire 
time  afforded  by  the  three  acts  of  the  comedy  to  a  detailed 
outline  of  the  psychologic  steps  which  ultimately  lead  to  a 
reconciliation  of  the  married  lovers  whose  romance  has  been 
disturbed  by  the  unprecedented  tempo  at  which  their  love- 
song  has  necessarily  been  chanted. 

In  no  preceding  composition  has  Pinero  dispensed  so 
utterly  with  the  interest  of  plot  and  confined  his  attention 
so  absolutely  to  the  interest  of  character.  The  narrative 
material  of  Quick  Work  is  perilously  thin ;  for  nothing  hap- 
pens on  the  stage,  except  at  a  single  strong  moment  in  the 
final  act  which  is  a  little  reminiscent  of  the  famous  climax 
of  Antony,  by  Alexandre  Dumas  pere.  Only  four  people — 
barring  supernumeraries — are  exhibited  in  the  course  of  the 
comedy;  but  these  four  characters  are  studied  with  meticu- 
lous exactitude.  The  dialogue  is  happily  conceived  and  writ- 
ten very  naturally.  Sir  Arthur,  in  sending  me  a  prompt- 
copy  of  Quick  Work,  explained  that  he  "did  not  attach  much 
importance  to  the  piece,  since  it  was  very  light,"  and  hinted 
toward  the  composition  of  a  "more  substantial  play"  in  the 
near  future. 

Clayton  Hamilton. 


THE  THUNDERBOLT 


CRITICAL  PREFACE  * 

The  Thunderbolt  was  written  immediately  after  His  House 
in  Order,  and  was  first  presented,  at  the  St.  James's  Theatre, 
in  London,  on  May  gth,  1908.  The  sub-title  of  this  play 
describes  it  as  "An  Episode  in  the  History  of  a  Provincial 
Family."  Here  again,  as  in  His  House  in  Order,  the  author 
has  devoted  his  attention  not  so  much  to  the  depiction  of 
individual  characters  as  to  the  study  of  a  family  regarded 
in  the  aspect  of  a  collective  social  entity ;  and  his  arraignment 
of  the  Mortimores  is  even  more  drastic  and  bitter  than  his 
previous  arraignment  of  the  Ridgeleys.  In  retrospect,  the 
antecedent  effort  may  be  regarded  as  a  sort  of  "try-out"  for 
this  later  masterpiece  of  the  sardonic  mood. 

The  trouble  with  the  family  as  a  social  unit  is  that  its 
members  are  selected  helter-skelter  by  a  capricious  and  un- 
reasonable providence.  It  is  logical  for  men  to  choose  their 
friends;  in  fact,  they  spend  a  lifetime  in  a  conscious  effort 
to  find  a  few  congenial  fellow-mortals  with  whom  they  may 
be  easily  companionable  and  naturally  intimate;  and  any 
person  is  lucky  who  can  discover  half  a  dozen  veritable 
friends  in  three  score  years  and  ten.  But  the  family  most 
frequently  imposes  a  false  assumption  of  friendship  upon 
people  who  are  not  at  all  allied  in  character  or  temperament. 
A  man  is  expected,  without  choice,  to  love  his  parents,  or 
his  brothers,  or  his  sisters,  because  of  the  mere  accident  of 
consanguinity;  and  often,  by  convention,  he  is  set  into  a 
strange  relation  with  several  people  whom  he  would  never 
have  chosen  freely  for  his  friends, — under  circumstances 
which,  in  their  imposition  of  an  artificial  intimacy,  trangress 

*  Copyright,  1922,  by  E.  P.  Dutton  &  Co. 

21 


22  THE  THUNDERBOLT 

the  imaginable  borders  of  the  delicate.  To  a  reasonable 
mind,  there  is  something  almost  indecent  in  an  artificial 
intimacy  with  an  utter  stranger, — even  though  this  utter 
stranger  may  be  a  man's  own  brother  or  his  father.  Thus 
the  family,  by  imposing  the  usages  of  intimacy  upon  people 
who  are  not  by  nature  intimate,  often  undermines  the  basic 
duty  of  the  individual  to  sustain  the  integrity  of  his  own 
soul,  by  suggesting  the  minor  obligation  of  maintaining  a 
false  series  of  affectionate  pretences. 

The  family,  considered  as  a  social  entity,  has  long  been 
lauded  in  England  as  a  bulwark  of  "respectability";  but 
Pinero  evidently  hates  the  British  family  as  an  artificial  in- 
stitution which  leads  dangerously  to  the  acceptance  of  many 
well-intended  lies  which  result  in  a  twisting  of  natural  in- 
centives and  a  thwarting  of  the  free  and  orderly  develop- 
ment of  individual  character.  In  all  fairness,  there  is  no  ap- 
parent reason  for  detesting  any  of  the  various  members  of 
the  Mortimore  family;  and  Thaddeus,  the  youngest  brother 
in  the  group,  is  positively  likable;  yet  the  spectacle  of  this 
assembled  family  awakens  an  emotion  that  is  closely  akin  to 
hatred. 

This  play  was  not  popular  in  London;  and,  though  ac- 
cepted with  respect  on  the  two  occasions  when  it  was  shown 
in  the  United  States — first,  by  the  New  Theatre,  of  New 
York,  and,  second,  by  the  Drama  Players,  of  Chicago — it 
has  never  achieved  a  notable  commercial  success  in  America. 
In  discussing  with  the  author  the  comparative  failure  of 
The  Thunderbolt  at  the  box-office,  I  suggested  that  the 
people  of  the  audience  were  made  to  hate  so  bitterly  the 
people  of  the  play  that  the  public  experienced  an  uncomfort- 
able evening  and  went  away  with  an  impression  of  antag- 
onism against  a  drama  whose  participants  were  so  emphat- 
ically undeserving  of  the  wished  response  of  human  sym- 
pathy. Thereupon,  Sir  Arthur  surprised  me  by  declaring 
that  he  personally  "loved"  every  one  of  the  characters  as- 
sembled   in    The    Thunderbolt.      He   repeated,    in    different 


CRITICAL  PREFACE  23 

words,  the  remark  assigned  to  Trlst,  in  the  second  act,  to 
the  effect  that  "their  faults  of  manner  and  breeding  are  pre- 
cisely the  faults  a  reasonable,  dispassionate  person  would 
have  no  difficulty  in  excusing."  He  told  me  that — regard- 
less of  the  predilections  of  the  theatre-going  public — he  had 
grown  to  be  more  deeply  interested  in  the  destinies  of 
mature  people  who  had  "somehow  gone  awry"  than  in  the 
roseate  hopes  of  young  people,  like  his  erstwhile  Little 
Lavender,  whose  actual  experience  of  life  still  swam  ahead 
of  them.  The  Mortimores,  he  said,  resembled  very  closely 
the  majority  of  ordinary  people  in  their  forties  or  their  fifties, 
and  it  would  be  uncharitable  not  to  love  them.  In  attempt- 
ing to  account  for  the  comparative  unpopularity  of  The 
Thunderbolt  in  the  commercial  theatre,  I  then  suggested  to 
the  author  that  the  people  in  the  audience  might  be  inclined 
subconsciously  to  resent  the  exhibition  on  the  stage  of  veri- 
tably living  characters  that  were  too  similar  to  themselves. 
The  average  attendant  at  the  theatre  judges  a  piece  entirely 
upon  the  basis  of  its  subject-matter.  If  he  likes  the  char- 
acters, and  likes  the  story,  he  goes  away  with  the  impression 
that  he  likes  the  play.  It  is  much  more  difficult  for  the 
casual  patron  of  the  box-office  to  appreciate  the  mastery  that 
may  have  been  bestowed  by  a  veritable  artist  upon  the  task  of 
depicting  life  as  it  is  actually  lived  in  countless  ordinary 
families  by  countless  ordinary  people. 

Yet,  for  a  critical  student  of  the  theatre,  there  can  be  no 
finer  pleasure  than  to  watch  with  understanding  the  doing 
of  a  worthy  work  that  is  done  supremely  well.  This  fine 
pleasure,  which  may  be  derived  only  rarely  from  an  observa- 
tion of  the  contemporary  drama,  is  afforded  by  a  study  of 
The  Thunderbolt.  In  order  to  receive  the  fullest  satisfac- 
tion of  a  masterpiece,  it  is  necessary — in  the  memorable 
words  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe — to  "contemplate  it  with  a  kin- 
dred art."  Sir  Arthur  Pinero,  in  the  composition  of  this 
play,  has  paid  his  auditors  the  compliment  of  asking  from 
them  an  alertness  of  intelligence  that  is  answerable  to  his 


24  THE  THUNDERBOLT 

own.  To  dismiss  The  Thunderbolt  as  "unpleasant"  is  to 
confess  an  incapacity  for  those  finer  pleasures  that  are  based 
upon  experience  and  education, — the  pleasure  of  recognising 
truth  in  a  wise  delineation  of  life,  and  the  pleasure  of  fol- 
lowing point  by  point  the  unfaltering  development  of  a  fault- 
less pattern. 

There  can  be  no  safer  formula  for  making  a  great  play 
than  to  start  out  with  a  conventional  plot  and,  while  retain- 
ing most  of  its  familiar  incidents,  to  make  the  old  fabric 
look  strange  and  new  by  telling  the  truth  about  it.  To 
populate  such  a  plot  with  living  characters  so  real  that  they 
assume  dominion  over  it,  and  thus  to  shift  the  emphasis  from 
the  element  of  incident  to  the  element  of  character,  to  reject 
at  crucial  moments  the  expected  in  favour  of  the  true — in 
other  words,  to  pluck  out  the  heart  of  the  mystery  that  has 
hitherto  lain  latent  in  the  story — this  is  the  surest  way  to 
achieve  in  the  drama  a  work  of  original  imagination.  The 
Thunderbolt  tells  anew  the  old  story  of  the  lost  and  stolen 
will,  and  two  of  its  four  acts  come  to  a  climax  in  scenes 
of  confession  and  cross-examination;  but  in  Sir  Arthur's 
drama  this  familiar  plot  is  set  forth  no  longer  for  its  own 
sake,  but  rather  for  the  sake  of  laying  bare  the  inmost 
nature  of  the  various  members  of  a  provincial  British  family. 

The  Mortimores — James,  Stephen,  Thaddeus,  and  their 
wives,  Rose,  and  her  husband,  Colonel  Ponting — are  all 
(excepting  Mrs.  Thaddeus)  well  along  in  their  forties  and 
fifties.  They  are  middle-class  people,  devoid  of  breeding  and 
of  education ;  but  they  are  respectable  and  sturdy,  and  are 
generally  esteemed  in  the  small  town  of  Singlehampton, 
where  they  live.  They  have  been,  in  the  worldly  sense,  only 
moderately  successful — James,  as  a  contractor  and  builder, 
Stephen  as  a  local  editor,  Rose  as  a  climber  in  London  society, 
and  Thaddeus  (the  most  likable  of  the  lot)  as  a  professor  of 
music.  Their  comparative  eminence  in  their  little  town  has 
given  them  a  habit  of  assumption  which  they  have  found  it 
difficult  to  maintain  upon  their  slender  means.  The  men 
have  become  brawling  and  embittered,  the  women  incisive 


CRITICAL  PREFACE  25 

and  acidulous.  They  had  an  elder  brother,  Edward,  who 
ran  away  from  Singlehampton  at  an  early  age  and  subse- 
quently amassed  a  large  fortune  as  a  brewer.  They  have 
always  chosen  to  look  upon  Edward  as  the  black  sheep  of 
the  family;  but  when,  in  his  last  illness,  he  is  persuaded  by 
his  solicitor  to  send  for  them  to  say  a  final  farewell,  they 
all  rush  pell-mell  to  his  house  in  the  city  of  Linchpool  in 
the  hope  of  inheriting  some  of  the  wealth  that  he  has  earned 
by  the   (to  them)    disreputable  business  of  brewing  beer. 

In  the  first  act,  they  are  exhibited  at  a  conference  with 
their  lawyers  in  a  room  immediately  below  that  in  which  the 
dead  body  of  their  brother  is  lying.  They  have  learned, 
with  surprise  and  trepidation,  that  Edward  has  left  an 
illegitimate  daughter,  named  Helen  Thornhill,  a  girl  of 
twenty-four,  now  an  art  student  in  Paris,  of  whom 
their  dead  brother  was  always  very  fond.  They  have  been 
instructed  also  that  unless  Edward  has  made  a  will  in 
Helen's  favour,  all  of  his  vast  estate  will  fall  in  equal  shares 
to  them,  the  next  of  kin.  A  diligent  search  has  not  revealed 
the  existence  of  a  will.  The  situation  calls  forth  all  of  the 
cupidity  that  is  latent  in  their  various  temperaments.  They 
argue,  quarrel,  agree,  dissent,  and  reconcile  themselves  as 
they  severally  grasp  at  the  money  that  an  unexpected  chance 
has  dropped  among  them.  The  scene  is  redolent  of  Moliere 
in  his  satiric  vein ;  but  it  is  much  more  bitter  and  sardonic. 
When  Helen  arrives,  they  grudgingly  offer  her  a  curtailed 
allowance;  and  this  she  proudly  and  somewhat  bitterly 
refuses.  She,  the  only  one  among  them  all  who  knew  and 
lovec1  the  dead  man,  will  not  accept  any  of  his  money  as  a 
charity  from  the  vultures  who  are  preying  upon  his  corpse. 

A  month  passes,  during  which  the  solicitors  advertise 
without  result  for  information  concerning  a  possible  will. 
Helen  is  visiting  Thaddeus  and  his  wife,  whom  she  dislikes 
much  less  than  the  other  members  of  the  family.  She  has 
grown  very  fond  of  their  children.  Mrs.  Thaddeus  is  by 
far  the  best  wife  and  mother  among  the  Mortimores ;  but 
she  has  always  been  despised  and  insulted  by  her  sisters-in- 


26  THE  THUNDERBOLT 

law,  because  her  father  kept  a  grocery  shop.  This  attitude 
on  the  part  of  her  relatives  by  marriage  has  won  Helen's 
sympathy  for  Mrs.  Thaddeus.  Furthermore,  Mrs.  Thad- 
deus  has  been  very  nervous  for  some  time  and  has  not  been 
sleeping  well.  On  the  eve  of  a  family  conference  to  settle 
the  estate,  Mrs.  Thaddeus  breaks  down  and  confesses  to  her 
husband  that,  just  before  Edward's  death,  she  discovered  in 
his  safe  a  will  in  which  he  left  all  his  wealth  to  a  young 
woman  in  Paris — who  was  at  that  time  unknown  to  her, 
but  who  was  in  fact  his  daughter,  Helen  Thornhill — and 
that  she  destroyed  this  will  and  cast  the  pieces  into  the  river 
Linch.  Her  husband  goes  to  the  family  conference,  and, 
substituting  himself  for  his  wife  in  the  story  that  he  has  to 
tell,  flings  this  thunderbolt  into  the  midst  of  the  clawing, 
cackling  harpies.  They  are  completely  stunned,  until  some- 
body discovers  a  slight  inconsistency  in  the  story  that  has 
been  told  to  them.  They  then  ply  Thaddeus  with  questions, 
which  become  more  and  more  embarrassing,  until  at  last  he 
is  broken  down  and  forced  to  confess  that  his  wife  and  not 
himself  destroyed  the  will.  Then  everybody  rushes  to  the 
house  of  Thaddeus  to  see  if  anything  may  yet  be  saved  from 
the  ruin  of  their  hopes. 

Helen,  facing  the  alternative  of  sending  Mrs.  Thaddeus 
to  prison,  chooses  to  compromise  and  to  divide  the  estate  with 
the  relatives  of  her  father.  Thaddeus  and  his  wife  renounce 
their  share,  but  Helen  insists  that  it  shall  be  settled  on  their 
children.  Much  to  the  general  disgust,  she  insists  also  that 
a  share  shall  be  given  to  a  hospital  in  Linchpool  in  memory 
of  her  father.  Her  attitude,  in  this  last  act,  is  neither  mag- 
nanimous nor  sentimental ;  it  is  merely  generous  and  right. 
The  play  closes  with  a  suggestion  that  she  may  ultimately 
find  a  life  companion  in  a  young  curate,  named  Trist,  who 
has  been  lodging  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thaddeus. 

This  framework  is  decorated  with  a  scathing  satire  of  that 
sordidness  which  seethes  to  the  surface  of  ordinary  natures 
when  they  are  suddenly  stirred  by  the  prospect  of  a  great 
wealth  which  they  have  never  done  anything  to  deserve.    All 


CRITICAL  PREFACE  27 

that  is  mean  and  nasty  in  the  natures  of  the  Mortimores  is 
called  forth  by  the  situation  into  which  they  are  cast.  As- 
suredly— to  use  the  language  of  Macbeth — they  make  a  sorry 
sight.  Helen  depicts  them  truly  in  the  second  act  when  she 
says,  "But  I'm  sure  it  isn't  good,  morally,  for  me  to  be  here. 
...  If  I  remained  here,  all  that's  bad  in  my  nature  would 
come  out  on  top."  Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  likely  that 
most  of  the  people  in  the  audience  who  dare  to  call  these 
charactefs  "unpleasant"  would  behave  in  much  the  same  way 
if  they  were  flung  suddenly  into  a  similar  situation.  As 
Trist  says,  in  the  play,  "Their  faults  of  manner  and  breed- 
ing are  precisely  the  faults  a  reasonable,  dispassionate  person 
would  have  no  difficulty  in  excusing."  And,  as  Thaddeus 
says,  even  more  justly,  in  his  final  defence  of  his  wife, 
"You've  seen  her  at  a  disadvantage — a  terrible  disadvantage. 
Few — few  pass  through  life  without  being  seen — once — or 
oftener — at  a  disadvantage."  The  Mortimores  are  sordid 
and  despicable  people,  if  you  will;  but  few  people  would 
show  themselves  otherwise  than  sordid  and  despicable  if  they 
saw  two  hundred  thousand  dollars  hovering  unexpectedly 
within  their  grasp. 

Technically,  this  play  is  notable  in  so  many  points  that 
only  a  small  proportion  of  them  can  be  called  up  for  atten- 
tion. In  the  first  act,  no  fewer  than  twelve  people  are 
introduced  upon  the  stage,  and  scarcely  for  a  moment  are 
less  than  eight  people  gathered  upon  the  scene.  Yet  not 
only  is  an  intricate  story  completely  expounded  in  this  in- 
itial act,  but  also  the  characters  of  all  these  dozen  people  are 
intimately  drawn,  in  a  dialogue  that  flutters  all  around  the 
stage  in  crisp  sentences  and  phrases  that  reveal  entirely  the 
individual  natures  of  the  speakers.  Only  a  playwright  can 
fully  realise  the  difficulty  of  this  technical  task  and  the  grace 
of  its  accomplishment. 

An  interesting  innovation  in  technique  was  introduced  in 
the  time-scheme  of  The  Thunderbolt.  The  second  and 
third  acts  overlap  each  other.  At  the  end  of  the  second  act, 
a  servant  appears  at  the  house  of  Thaddeus  and  informs  him 


28  THE  THUNDERBOLT 

that  the  assembled  members  of  the  family  are  waiting  for 
him  at  the  house  of  his  brother  James.  At  the  outset  of  the 
third  act,  we  find  ourselves  in  the  midst  of  this  family  con- 
ference ;  but  three  minutes  of  actual  acting  time  elapse  before 
the  servant  is  summoned  and  despatched  upon  the  errand 
whose  completion  we  have  already  witnessed  at  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  antecedent  act.  This  device  has  subsequently 
been  adopted  by  several  other  playwrights;  but  Pinero  was 
the  first  technician  to  employ  it  on  the  stage. 

Whereas  a  lesser  dramatist  would  have  rung  down  his 
third  curtain  on  the  collapse  of  Thaddeus  at  the  conclusion 
of  his  tragic  confession,  Pinero  appends  a  scene  which  is 
terribly  comic,  in  order  to  work  out  to  the  last  hateful  and 
laughable  detail  the  effect  of  the  confession  on  the  other 
members  of  the  family. 

Whereas  almost  any  other  author  would  have  succumbed 
to  the  temptation  to  sentimentalise  over  Helen's  generosity 
in  the  last  act,  Pinero  carries  off  the  situation  in  a  mood 
that  is  serenely  stern.  When  Mrs.  Thaddeus  sinks  weeping 
at  the  feet  of  Helen,  the  latter,  in  the  very  moment  of  for- 
giving her,  walks  away  from  her  instead  of  helping  her  to 
rise.  And,  at  the  end,  Helen  suggests  that  no  word  should 
pass  between  the  woman  who  has  wronged  her  and  herself 
for  the  next  six  months;  after  which — and  here  is  the 
human  point — she  hopes  that  Mrs.  Thaddeus  will  again 
invite  her  for  a  visit. 

Humanly,  The  Thunderbolt  is  unique  in  many  ways.  It 
is  one  of  the  few  great  plays  of  history  in  which  there  is 
no  love  story.  It  is  merely  suggested  that,  at  some  time 
subsequent  to  the  play,  Helen  may  possibly  fall  in  love  with 
Trist.  Not  for  a  single  moment  is  attention  called  to  the 
fact  that  any  of  the  other  characters  is,  in  the  sexual  sense, 
a  man  or  a  woman.  This  is,  in  modern  art,  and  especially 
in  the  art  of  Pinero,  a  remarkable  departure  from  the  usual. 
Pinero's  later  plays  have  dealt  nearly  always  with  some  in- 
tricacy of  relation  between  the  sexes;  and  all  contemporary 
art  is  drenched  with  what — to  use  a  German-sounding  word 


CRITICAL  PREFACE  29 

— we  may  call  sex-consciousness.  In  this,  our  modern  art 
belies  the  modesty  of  nature;  for  in  actual  life  it  is  only 
now  and  then  that  we  are  conscious  of  our  sex.  Most  of 
the  time  we  are  not  males  or  females,  but  merely  human 
beings.  And  it  is  gratifying  to  observe  a  play  in  which  all 
the  people  are  exhibited  upon  the  common  ground  of  human 
nature,  without  awareness  of  diversity  of  sex. 

It  is  especially  notable,  in  The  Thunderbolt,  that  the 
crime  of,  destroying  the  will  and  the  consequent  crime  of 
lying  about  the  circumstances  of  its  destruction,  are  com- 
mitted impulsively  by  the  two  people  in  the  Mortimore 
family  who  are,  from  first  to  last,  the  most  likable  of  the 
lot.  This  is  a  very  subtle  point  in  the  psychology  of  per- 
sonal obliquity.  Mrs.  Thaddeus,  who  destroys  the  will, 
is  a  better  person  than  the  other  women  who  merely  profit 
by  her  crime;  and  Thaddeus,  who  tells  an  elaborate  lie, 
has  a  truer  nature  than  the  brothers  who  detect  him  in  his 
falsification.  This  great  ethical  principle,  that  people  must 
be  judged  not  by  their  unpremeditated  deeds  but  by  their 
abiding  and  essential  personality,  was  clearly  expounded, 
many  centuries  ago,  by  the  wisest  of  all  men,  Dante  Alighieri  ; 
but  it  is  often  lost  sight  of  in  modern  art  by  authors  whose 
vision  is  less  clear  than  that  of  Sir  Arthur  Pinero. 

Considered  from  the  narrow  outlook  of  sheer  technical 
accomplishment,  The  Thunderbolt  may  reasonably  be  re- 
garded as  the  ultimate  monument  of  intensive  artistry  in  the 
modern  drama.  I  know  no  other  play,  of  any  period,  that 
has  ever  been  more  finely  made.  When  the  piece  was  new, 
a  good  and  faithful  friend  of  the  author  and  the  editor — 
Mr.  Henry  Arthur  Jones — complained  against  it  in  a  private 
conversation  with  the  present  writer  which  may  now  be  re- 
ported without  embarrassment,  by  reason  of  the  passage  of 
the  years.  Mr.  Jones  said  to  me,  a  decade  ago,  that  he 
regarded  The  Thunderbolt  as  faulty  in  construction,  by 
reason  of  the  fact  that  the  third  act  did  not  advance  the  story 
but  merely  repeated  a  passage  of  narrative  with  which  the 
audience  had  already  been  made  completely  acquainted  at 


3o  THE  THUNDERBOLT 

the  conclusion  of  the  second  act.  While  appreciating  the 
reasonable  fundament  of  this  objection,  I  replied  that  this 
apparent  repetition  was,  in  my  opinion,  the  most  admirable 
feature  of  the  structure  of  The  Thunderbolt.  In  the  second 
act,  the  secret  of  the  plot  was  delivered  to  the  audience ;  and, 
in  the  third  act,  the  audience — acquainted  already  with  the 
underlying  facts — was  prepared  to  devote  an  undisrupted 
attention  to  the  effect  of  the  delivery  of  these  facts  upon 
the  assembled  members  of  the  Mortimore  family.  By  this 
unusual  device,  a  play  of  plot  was  suddenly  transmuted  and 
transfigured  to  a  play  of  character.  I  still  believe  that  my 
initial  opinion  of  this  matter  was  correct ;  and  I  dare  say  that 
so  generous  a  commentator  as  Mr.  Henry  Arthur  Jones 
has  latterly  withdrawn  his  previous  objection. 

The  dialogue  of  The  Thunderbolt  shows  the  writing  of 
Pinero  at  his  best.  In  no  other  of  his  compositions  has  he 
succeeded  so  unquestionably  in  distinguishing  the  natural 
key  of  unpremeditated  conversation  from  the  more  formal 
key  of  studied  and  premeditated  prose.  A  passage  toward 
the  end  of  the  second  act,  in  which  the  dazed  and  inartic- 
ulate Thaddeus  vaguely  repeats,  in  speech  after  speech,  the 
last  words  that  have  been  uttered  by  his  wife  in  the  course 
of  her  delivery  of  an  unexpected  thunderbolt,  should  be 
studied  by  all  sedulous  apprentices  to  the  craft  of  composi- 
tion for  the  current  stage;  and  the  exit-speech  of  Thaddeus 
in  the  final  act  should  be  studied  meticulously,  also,  for  its 
exhibition  of  the  dramatic  virtue  of  repeating,  over  and 
over  again,  a  few  fundamental  words.  Any  student  of  the 
drama  is  entitled  to  form  his  own  opinion  of  the  ultimate 
importance  of  the  subject-matter  of  The  Thunderbolt;  but 
the  present  commentator  may  be  permitted  to  venture  the 
assertion  that  no  other  modern  play,  with  the  possible  ex- 
ception of  Mid-Channel,  is  more  nearly  perfect  in  construc- 
tion, nor  more  nearly  impeccable — in  respect  to  recent 
standards — in  the  composition  of  its  dialogue. 

C.  H. 


THE   THUNDERBOLT 

AN  EPISODE  IN  THE  HISTORY  OF  A  PROVINCIAL  FAMILY, 

IN  FOUR  ACTS 


THE  PERSONS  OF  THE  PLAY 

James  Mortimore 

Ann,  his  wife 

Stephen  Mortimore 

Louisa,  his  wife 

Thaddeus  Mortimore 

Phyllis,  his  wife 

Toyce  I 

The  Thaddeus  Mortimores'  children 


Cyril  J 


Colonel  Ponting 

Rose,  his  wife,  nee  Mortimore 

Helen  Thornhill 

The  Rev.  George  Trist 

Mr.  Vallance,  solicitor,  of  Singlehampton 

Mr.  Elkin,  solicitor,  of  Linchpool 

Mr.  Denyer,  a  house-agent 

Heath,  a  man-servant 

A  servant  girl  at  Nelson  Villas 

Two  others  at  "Ivanhoe" 

The  scene  of  the  First  Act  is  laid  at  Linchpool,  a  city  in 
the  Midlands.  The  rest  of  the  action  takes  place,  a  month 
later,  in  the  town  of  Singlehampton. 


THE  THUNDERBOLT 


Original  cast,  as  first  disclosed  at  the  St.  James's  Theatre, 

May  9th,   1908. 


James  Mortimore  . 

Ann  (his  Wife)        .      .      . 

Stephen  Mortimore    . 

Louisa  (his  Wife)   . 

Thaddeus  Mortimore 

Phyllis  (his  Wife) 

.]    The  Thaddeus 

*L        '  I    Mortimores' 

CYRILJ     Children 

Colonel  Ponting    . 

Rose   (his  Wife,  nee  Morti- 
more)      

Helen  Thornhill 

The  Rev.  George  Trist    . 

Mr.  Vallance  (Solicitor,  of 
Singlehampton) 

Mr.    Elkin     (Solicitor,    of 
Linchpool)         . 

Mr.     Denyer     (a     House- 
agent)    

Heath   (a  Manservant) 

A  Servant  Girl  at  Nelson 
Villas        

Two    Others    at    "Ivan- 


hoe 


Mr.  Louis  Calvert 
Miss  Kate  Bishop 
Mr.  Norman  Forbes 
Miss  Alice  Beet 
Mr.  George  Alexander 
Miss  Mabel  Hackney 

Miss  Miff  no  n  Clifford 
Master  Cyril  Bruce 

Mr.  Wilfrid  Draycott 

Miss  May  Palfrey 
Miss  Stella  Campbell 
Mr.  Reginald  Owen 

Mr.  Julian  Royce 

Mr.  J.  D.  Beveridge 

Mr.  F.  J.  Arlton 
Mr.  Richard  Haigh 

Miss  Gladys  Dale 
J  Miss  Sybil  Maurisse 
I  Miss  Vere  Sinclair 


THE  THUNDERBOLT 


THE  FIRST  ACT 

The  scene  represents  a  large,  oblong  room,  situated  on  the 
ground  floor  and  furnished  as  a  library.  At  the  back, 
facing  the  spectator,  are  three  sash  windows,  slightly  re- 
cessed, with  Venetian  blinds.  There  is  a  chair  in  each 
recess.  At  the  further  end  of  the  right-hand  wall  a 
door  opens  from  the  hall,  the  remaining  part  of  the  ivall 
— that  nearer  to  the  audience — being  occupied  by  a  long 
dwarf-bookcase.  This  bookcase  finishes  at  each  end  with 
a  cupboard,  and  on  the  top  of  each  cupboard  stands  a 
lamp.     The  keys  of  the  cupboards  are  in  their  locks. 

On  the  left-hand  side  of  the  room,  in  the  middle  of  the 
wall,  is  a  fireplace  with  a  fender-stool  before  it,  and  on 
either  side  of  the  fireplace  there  is  a  tall  bookcase  with 
glazed  doors.  A  high-backed  armchair  faces  the  fire- 
place at  the  further  end.  A  smoking-table  with  the 
usual  accessories,  a  chair,  and  a  settee  stand  at  the  nearer 
end  of  the  fireplace,  a  few  feet  from  the  wall. 

Almost  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  facing  the  spectator,  there 
is  a  big  knee-hole  writing-table  with  a  lamp  upon  it. 
On  the  further  side  of  the  table  is  a  writing-chair. 
Another  chair  stands  beside  the  table. 

On  the  right,  near  the  dwarf-bookcase,  there  is  a  circular 
library-table  on  which  are  strewn  books,  newspapers,  and 
magazines.  Round  this  table  a  settee  and  three  chairs 
are  arranged. 

35 


36  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

The  furniture  and  decorations,  without  exhibiting  any 
special  refinement  of  taste,  are  rich  and  massive. 

The  Venetian  blinds  are  down  and  the  room  is  in  semi- 
darkness.  What  light  there  is  proceeds  from  the  bright 
sunshine  visible  through  the  slats. 

Seated  about  the  room,  as  if  waiting  for  somebody  to  arrive, 
are  James  and  Ann  Mortimore,  Stephen  and 
Louisa,  Thaddeus  and  Phyllis,  and  Colonel 
Ponting  and  Rose.  The  ladies  are  wearing  their  hats 
and  gloves.  Everybody  is  in  the  sort  of  black  u  huh 
people  hurriedly  muster  while  regular  mourning  is  in  the 
making — in  the  case  of  the  Mortimores,  the  black  being 
added  to  apparel  of  a  less  sombre  kind.  All  speak  in 
subdued  voices. 

[Note: — Throughout,  "right"  and  "left"  are  the  specta- 
tors' right  and  left,  not  the  actor's.] 

Rose. 

[A  lady  of  forty-four,  fashionably  dressed  and  coiffured 
and  with  a  suspiciously  blooming  complexion — on  the  set- 
tee on  the  left,  fanning  herself.]     Oh,  the  heat!     I'm  stifled. 

Louisa. 
[On   the  right — forty-six,  a  spare,   thin-voiced  woman.] 
Mayn't  we  have  a  window  open  ? 

Ann. 
[Beside  the  writing-table — a  stolid,  corpulent  woman  of 
fifty.]     I  don't  think  we  ought  to  have  a  window  open. 

James. 

[At  the  writing-table — a  burly,  thick-set  man,  a  little 
older  than  his  wife,  with  iron-gray  hair  and  beard  and  a 
crape  band  round  his  sleeve.]     Phew!    Why  not,  mother? 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  37 

Ann. 

It  isn't  usual  in  a  house  of  mourning — except  in  the  room 
where  the 

PONTING. 

[In    the   armchair   before    the    fireplace — fifty-five,    short, 

stout,  apoplectic]     Rubbish!      [Dabbing  his  brow.]     I  beg 

your  pardon — it's  like  the  Black  Hole  of  Calcutta. 

* 

Thaddeus. 

[Rising  from  the  settee  on  the  right,  ivhere  he  is  sitting 
ivith  Phyllis — a  meek,  care-worn  man  of  two-and- forty.] 
Shall  I  open  one  a  little  way? 

Stephen. 
[On  the  further  side  of  the  library-table — forty-nine,  bald, 
stooping,  with  red  rims  to  his  eyes,  wearing  spectacles.]     Do, 
Tad. 

[Thaddeus  goes  to  the  window  on  the  right  and  opens 
it. 

Thaddeus. 
[From  behind  the  Venetian  blind.]     Here's  a  fly. 

James. 

[Taking  out  his  watch  as  he  rises.]  That'll  be  Crake. 
Half-past  eleven.     He's  in  good  time. 

Thaddeus. 

[Looking  into  the  street.]  It  isn't  Crake.  It's  a  young 
fellow. 

James. 
Young  fellow? 

Thaddeus. 
[Emerging.]     It's  Crake's  partner. 

James. 
His  partner? 


38  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

Stephen. 
Crake  has  sent  Vallance. 

James. 
What's  he  done  that  for?    Why  hasn't  he  come  himself? 
This  young  man  doesn't  know  anything  about  our  family. 

Ann. 
He'll  know  the  law,  James. 

James. 

Oh,  the  law's  clear  enough,  mother. 

[After  a  short  silence  Heath,  a  middle-aged  man- 
servant, appears,  followed  by  Vallance.  Vallance 
is  a  young  man  of  about  five-and-thirty. 

Heath. 
Mr.  Vallance. 

James. 

[Advancing   to  Vallance  as   Heath  retires.}      Good- 
morning. 

Vallance. 
Good-morning.      [Inquiringly.]    Mr.  Mortimore? 

James. 
James  Mortimore. 

•  Vallance. 

Mr.  Crake  had  your  telegram  yesterday  evening. 

James. 
Yes,  he  answered  it,  telling  us  to  expect  him. 

Vallance. 
He's  obliged   to   go  to   London   on   business.      He's  very 
sorry.     He  thought  I'd  better  run  through. 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  39 

James. 

Oh,  well — glad  to  see  you.  [Introducing  the  others.] 
My  wife.  My  sister  Rose — Mrs.  Ponting.  My  sister-in- 
law,  Mrs.  Stephen  Mortimore.  My  sister-in-law,  Mrs. 
Thaddeus.     My  brother  Stephen. 

Stephen. 
[Rising.']      Mr.  Vallance  was  pointed  out  to  me  at  the 
Institute  the  other  night.     [Shaking  hands  with  Vallance.] 
You  left  by  the  eight  forty-seven  ? 

Vallance. 
Yes.    I  changed  at  Mirtlesfield. 

James. 
Colonel    Ponting — my    brother-in-law.      [Ponting,    who 
has  risen,  nods  to  Vallance  and  joins  Rose.]     My  younger 
brother,  Thaddeus. 

Thaddeus. 

[Who  has  moved  away  to  the  left.]     How  d'ye  do? 

James. 

[Putting  Vallance  into  the  chair  before  the  writing-table 
and  switching  on  the  light  of  the  lamp.]  You  sit  yourself 
down  there.      [To  everybody.]     Who's  to  be  spokesman? 

Stephen. 

[Joining  Louisa.]     Oh,  you  explain  matters,  Jim. 

[Louisa  makes  way  for  Stephen,  transferring  herself 
to  another  chair  so  that  her  husband  may  be  nearer 
Vallance. 

James. 
[To  Ponting.]     Colonel? 

Ponting. 

[Sitting  by  Rose.]  Certainly;  you  do  the  talking,  Morti- 
more. 


4o  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

James. 

[Sitting,  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  astride  a  chair,  which 
he  fetches  from  the  window  on  the  right.]  Well,  Mr.  Val- 
lance, the  reason  we  wired  you  yesterday — wired  Mr.  Crake, 
rather — asking  him  to  meet  us  here  this  morning,  is  this. 
Something  has  happened  here  in  Linchpool  which  makes  it 
necessary  for  us  to  obtain  a  little  legal  assistance. 

Vallance. 
Yes? 

James. 

Not  that  we  anticipate  legal  difficulties,  whichever  way 
the  affair  shapes.  At  the  same  time,  we  consider  it  advis- 
able that  we  should  be  represented  by  our  own  solicitor — a 
solicitor  who  has  our  interests  at  heart,  and  nobody's  interests 
but  ours.     [Looking  round.]     Isn't  that  it? 

Stephen. 
We  want  our  interests  watched — our  interests  exclusively. 

Ponting. 
Watched — that's  it.     I'm  speaking  for  my  wife,  of  course. 

Rose. 

[With  a  languid  drawl.]  Yes,  watched.  We  should  like 
our  interests  watched. 

James. 

[To  Vallance.]  These  are  the  facts.  I'll  start  with 
a  bit  of  history.  We  Mortimores  are  one  of  the  oldest,  and, 
I'm  bold  enough  to  say,  one  of  the  most  respected,  families 
in  Singlehampton.  You're  a  newcomer  to  the  town ;  so  I'm 
obliged  to  tell  you  things  I  shouldn't  have  to  tell  Crake, 
who's  been  the  family's  solicitor  for  years.  Four  generations 
of  Mortimores — I'm  not  counting  our  youngsters,  who  make 
a  fifth — four  generations  of  Mortimores  have  been  born  in 
Singlehampton,  and  the  majority  of  'em  have  earned  their 
daily  bread  there. 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  41 

Vallance. 

Indeed  ? 

James. 

Yes,  sir,  indeed.  Now,  then.  [Pointing  to  the  writing- 
table.]  Writing-paper's  in  the  middle  drawer.  [Vallance 
takes  a  sheet  of  paper  from  the  drawer  and  arranges  it  before 
him.}  My  dear  father  and  mother — both  passed  away — 
had  five  children,  four  sons  and  a  daughter.  I'm  the  second 
son;  then  comes  Stephen;  then  Rose — Mrs.  Colonel  Pont- 
ing;  then  Thaddeus.    You  see  us  all  round  you. 

Vallance. 
[Selecting  a  pen.]     Five  children,  you  said? 

James. 
Five.    The  eldest  of  us  was  Ned — Edward 


Stephen. 
Edward  Thomas  Mortimore. 

James. 
Edward  cut  himself  adrift  from  Singlehampton  six-and-    \ 
twenty  years  ago.     He  died  at  a  quarter-past  three  yester- 
day morning. 

Stephen. 
Up-stairs. 

James. 
We're  in  his  house. 

Stephen. 
We  lay  him  to  rest  in  the  cemetery  here  on  Monday. 

Vallance. 
[Sympathetically.]     I  was  reading  in  the  train,  in  one  of 
the  Linchpool  papers 

James. 
Oh,  they've  got  it  in  all  their  papers. 


42  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

Vallance. 
Mr.  Mortimore,  the  brewer? 

James. 
The  same.     Aye,  he  was  a  big  man  in  Linchpool. 

Stephen. 
A  very  big  man. 

James. 

And,  what's  more,  a  very  wealthy  one;  there's  no  doubt 
about  that.     Well,  we  can't  find  a  will,  Mr.  Vallance. 

Vallance. 
Really? 

James. 

To  all  appearances,  my  brother's  left  no  will — died  in- 
testate. 

Vallance. 
Unmarried? 

James. 

Unmarried;  a  bachelor.  Now,  then,  sir — just  to  satisfy 
my  good  lady — in  the  event  of  no  will  cropping  up,  what 
becomes  of  my  poor  brother's  property? 

Vallance. 
It  depends  upon  what  the  estate  consists  of.     As  much  of 
it  as  is  real  estate  would  go  to  the  heir-at-law — in  this  in- 
stance, the  eldest  surviving  brother. 

Ponting. 
[Impatiently.]      Yes,   yes;   but   it's   all   personal   estate — 
personal  estate,  every  bit  of  it. 

James. 
[To   Vallance.]      The   Colonel's  right.     It's   personal 
estate   entirely,   so   we    gather.      The   Colonel    and    I   were 
pumping  Elkin's  managing-clerk  about  it  this  morning. 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  43 

Vallance. 
Elkin? 

James. 
Elkin,  Son  and  Tullis. 

Stephen. 

Mr.   Elkin  has  acted   as  my  poor  brother's  solicitor  for 
the  last  fifteen  years. 

«  James. 

And  he's  never  made  a  will  for  Ned. 

Stephen. 
Nor  heard  my  brother  mention  the  existence  of  one. 

James. 
[To    Vallance.]       Well?      In    the    case    of    personal 

estate ? 

Vallance. 
In  that  case,  equal  division  between  next-of-kin. 

James. 
That's  us — me,  and  my  brothers,  and  my  sister? 

Vallance. 
Yes. 

James. 
[To  Ann.]     What  did  I  tell  you,  Ann?     [To  the  rest.] 
What  did  I  tell  everybody? 

[Stephen  polishes  his  spectacles,  and  Ponting  pulls 
at  his  moustache,  vigorously.  Rose,  Ann,  and 
Louisa  resettle  themselves  in  their  seats  with  great 
contentment. 

Vallance. 
[Writing.]        "Edward"  —    [looking     up]        Thomas? 
[James  nods.]     "Thomas — Mortimore " 

James. 
Of  3  Cannon  Row  and  Horton  Lane 


44  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

Stephen. 
Horton  Lane  is  where  the  brewery  is. 

James. 
Linchpool,  brewer. 

Stephen. 
"Gentleman"  is  the  more  correct  description.     The  busi- 
ness was  converted  into  a  company  in  nineteen-hundred-and- 
four. 

Louisa. 
Gentleman,  ah!    What  a  gentlemanly  man  he  was! 

Ann. 
A  perfect  gentleman  in  every  respect. 

Rose. 
Most  gentlemanlike,  poor  dear  thing. 

PONTING. 

Must  have  been.  I  never  saw  him — but  must  have  been. 

James. 
[To  Vallance.]     Gentleman,  deceased 


Stephen. 
Died,  June  the  twentieth 

James. 
Aged  fifty-three.    Two  years  my  senior. 

Vallance. 
[With  due  mournfulness.]     No  older?     [Writing.]     You 

are  James- 

James. 
James    Henry.      "Ivanhoe,"    Claybrook   Road,    and    Vic- 
toria Yard   Singlehampton,  builder  and  contractor. 

Ann. 
My   husband    is   a   parish    guardian    and   a   rural-district 
councilman. 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  45 

James. 
Never  mind  that,  mother. 

Ann. 
Eight  years  treasurer  of   the    Institute,   and   one  of   the 
founders  of  the  Singlehampton  and  Claybrook  Temperance 
League. 

«  Louisa. 

Stephen  was  one  of  the  founders  of  the  League  too — 
weren't  you,  Stephen? 

\  James. 

[To  Vallance.]  Stephen  Philip  Mortimore,  11  The 
Crescent,  and  32  King  Street,  Singlehampton,  printer  and 
publisher;  editor  and  proprietor  of  our  Singlehampton  Times 
and  Mirror. 

Louisa. 
Author   of   the   History   of   Singlehampton   and   its   Sur- 
roundings  

Stephen. 
All  right,  Lou. 

Louisa. 
With  Ordnance  Map. 

James. 
Rose  Emily  Rackstraw  Ponting 


Rose. 
My  mother  was  a  Rackstraw. 

James. 
Wife  of  Arthur  Everard  Ponting,  West  Sussex  Regiment, 
Colonel,    retired,    17a    Coningsby    Place,    South    Belgravia, 
London.    That's  the  lot. 

Ann. 

No 

James. 
Oh,   there's  Tad.      [To   Vallance.]      Thaddeus  John 
Mortimore 


46  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

Thaddeus. 
[Who   is  standing,   looking   on,   with    his   elbows  resting 
upon  the  back  of  the  chair  before  the  fireplace — smiling  dif- 
fidently.]    Don't  forget  me,  Jim. 

James. 
6  Nelson  Villas,  Singlehampton,  professor  of  music.    Any 
further  Darticulars,  Mr.  Vallance? 

Vallance. 
[Finishing  writing  and  leaning  back  in  his  chair.]      May 
I  ask,  Mr.  Mortimore,  what  terms  you  and  your  sister  and 
brothers  were  on  with  the  late  Mr.  Mortimore? 

James. 
Terms  ? 

Vallance. 
What  I  mean  is,  your  late  brother  was  a  man  of  more  than 
ordinary  intelligence;  he  must  have  known  who  his  estate 
would  benefit,  in  the  event  of  his  dying  intestate. 

James. 
[With  a  nod.]     Aye. 

Vallance. 
My  point  is,  was  he  on  such  terms  with  you  as  to  make 
it  reasonably  probable  that  he  should  have  desired  his  estate 
to  pass  to  those  who  are  here? 

James. 
[Rubbing  his  beard.]      Reasonably  probable? 

Stephen. 
Certainly. 

Ponting. 
In  my  opinion,  certainly. 

James. 
[Looking  at  the  others.]      He  sent  for  us  when  he  was 
near  his  end 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  47 

Stephen. 
Showing  that  old  sores  were  healed — thoroughly   healed 
— as  far  as  he  was  concerned. 

Vallance. 
Old  sores? 

James. 
He  wouldn't  have  done  that  if  he  hadn't  had  a  fondness 
for  his  *family — eh? 

Ann. 
Of  course  not. 

Louisa. 
Of  course  he  wouldn't 

Ponting. 
Quite  so. 

Vallance. 
Then,  I  take  it,  there  had  been — er ? 

Stephen. 
An  estrangement.    Yes,  there  had. 

James. 
Oh,  I'm  not  one  for  keeping  anything  in  the  background. 
Up  to  a  day  or  two  before  his  death,  we  hadn't  been   on 
what  you'd  call  terms  with  my  brother  for  many  years,  Mr. 
Vallance. 

Stephen. 
Unhappily. 

James. 
De  mortuis — how's  it  go ? 

Stephen. 
De  mortuis  nil  nisi  bonurn. 

James. 
Well,  plain  English  is  good  enough  for  me.     [To  Val- 
lance.]    But  I  don't  attempt  to  deny  it — at  one  time  of  his 
life  my  poor  brother  Edward  was  a  bit  of  a  scamp,  sir. 


48  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

Stephen. 
A  little  rackety — a  little  wild.    Young  men  will  be  young 
men. 

Ann. 
[Shaking  her  head.]     I've  a  grown-up  son  myself. 

Louisa. 
[Inconsequently.]     And  there  are  two  sides  to  every  ques- 
tion.    I  always  say — don't  I,  Stephen ? 

Stephen. 
Yes,  yes,  yes. 

Louisa. 
There  are  two  sides  to  every  question. 

James. 
[To  Vallance.]     No,  sir,  after  Edward  cleared  out  of 
Singlehampton,  we  didn't  see  him  again,  any  of  us,  till  about 
fifteen  years  back.    Then  he  came  to  settle  here,  in  this  city, 
and  bought  Cordingly's  brewery. 

Louisa. 
Only  forty  miles  away  from  his  birthplace. 

Stephen. 
Forty-two  miles. 

Louisa. 
That  was  fate. 

Stephen. 
Chance. 

Louisa. 
/  don't  know  the  difference  between  chance  and  fate. 

Stephen. 
[Irritably.]     No,  you  don't,  Lou. 

James. 
Then  some  of  us  used  to  knock  up  against  him  occasionally 
— generally  on  the  line,  at  Mirtlesfield  junction.    But  it  was 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  49 

only  a  nod,  or  a  how-d'ye-do,  we  got  from  him;  and  it  never 
struck  us  till  last  Tuesday  morning  that  he  kept  a  soft  corner 
in  his  heart  for  us  all. 

Vallance. 
Tuesday ? 

Ann. 
First  post. 

*  James. 

We  had  a  letter  from  Elkin,  telling  us  that  poor  Ned  was 
seriously  ill ;  and  saying  that  he  was  willing  to  shake  hands 
with  the  principal  members  of  the  family,  if  they  chose  to 
come  through  to  Linchpool. 

Stephen. 
Thank  God  we  came. 

James. 
Aye,  thank  God. 

Ann  and  Louisa. 
Thank  God. 

Rose. 

[Affectedly.]  It  will  always  be  a  sorrow  to  me  that  I 
didn't  get  down  till  it  was  too  late.  I  shall  never  cease  to 
reproach  myself. 

James. 
[Indulgently.]      Oh,   well,   you're  a  woman   o'   fashion, 
Rose. 

Rose. 

[With  a  simper.]  Still,  if  I  had  guessed  the  end  was  as 
near  as  it  was,  I'd  have  given  up  my  social  engagements 
without  a  murmur.     [Appealing  to  Ponting.]     Toby ! 

Ponting. 

Without  a  murmur — without  a  murmur;  both  of  us 
would. 


50  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

Vallance. 
[Rising,  putting  his  notes  into  his  pocketbook  as  he  speaks.] 
I  think  it  would  perhaps  be  as  well  that  I  should  meet  Mr. 
Elkin. 

Stephen. 
That's  the  plan. 

James. 

[Rising.]     Just  what  I  was  going  to  propose. 

Stephen. 
Elkin  knows  we  have  communicated  with  our  solicitor. 

James. 
[Looking  at  his  watch.]      He's  gone  round  to  the  Safe 
Deposit  Company  in  Lemon  Street. 

Stephen. 

His  latest  idea  is  that  my  brother  may  have  rented  a  safe 
there. 

Ponting. 

[Who  has  risen  with  James.]  Preposterous.  Never 
heard  anything  more  grotesque. 

James. 
The  old  gentleman  will  want  to  drag  the  river  Linch  next. 

Ponting. 

As  if  a  man  of  wealth  and  position,  with  safes  and  strong- 
rooms of  his  own,  would  deposit  his  will  in  a  place  of  that 
sort.     'Pon  my  word,  it's  outrageous  of  Elkin. 

Stephen. 
It  does  seem  rather  extravagant. 

Rose. 
Absurd. 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  51 

Vallance. 
[Coming   forward.]      We   must   remember   that    it's   the 
duty  of  all  concerned  to  use  every  possible  means  of  discovery. 
[To  James.]     Your  brother  had  an  office  at  the  brewery? 

James. 
Elkin  and  I  turned  that  inside-out  yesterday. 

Stephen. 
In  the  presence  of  Mr.  Holt  and  Mr.  Friswell,  two  of 
the  directors. 

Vallance. 

And  his  bank ? 

James. 
London  City  and  Midland.    Four  tin  boxes.    We've  been 
through  'em. 

Stephen. 
The  most  likely  place  of  deposit,  I  should  have  thought, 
was  the  safe  in  this  room. 

Ponting. 
Exactly.     The  will  would  have  been  there  if  there  had 
been  a  will  at  all. 

[James  switches  on  the  light  of  the  lamp  which  stands 
above  the  cupboard  at  the  further  end  of  the  dwarf- 
bookcase. 

James. 
[Opening  the  cupboard  and  revealing  a  safe.]     Yes,  this 
is  where  my  brother's  private  papers  are. 

Stephen. 
This  was  his  library  and  sanctum. 

James. 
[Listening    as    he    shuts    the    cupboard    door.]       Hallo! 
[Opening  the  room  door  a  few  inches  and  peering  into  the 
hall.]     Here  is  Elkin.     [There  is  a  slight  general  movement 


5o  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

Vallance. 
[Rising,  putting  his  notes  into  his  pocketbook  as  he  speaks.] 
I  think  it  would  perhaps  be  as  well  that  I  should  meet  Mr. 
Elkin. 

Stephen. 
That's  the  plan. 

James. 

[Rising.]     Just  what  I  was  going  to  propose. 

Stephen. 
Elkin  knows  we  have  communicated  with  our  solicitor. 

James. 
[Looking  at  his  watch.]      He's  gone  round  to  the  Safe 
Deposit  Company  in  Lemon  Street. 

Stephen. 

His  latest  idea  is  that  my  brother  may  have  rented  a  safe 
there. 

Ponting. 

[Who  has  risen  with  James.]  Preposterous.  Never 
heard  anything  more  grotesque. 

James. 
The  old  gentleman  will  want  to  drag  the  river  Linch  next. 

Ponting. 

As  if  a  man  of  wealth  and  position,  with  safes  and  strong- 
rooms of  his  own,  would  deposit  his  will  in  a  place  of  that 
sort.     'Pon  my  word,  it's  outrageous  of  Elkin. 

Stephen. 
It  does  seem  rather  extravagant. 

Rose. 
Absurd. 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  51 

Vallance. 
[Coming   forward.}      We   must   remember   that   it's   the 
duty  of  all  concerned  to  use  every  possible  means  of  discovery. 
[To  James.]     Your  brother  had  an  office  at  the  brewery? 

James. 
Elkin  and  I  turned  that  inside-out  yesterday. 

Stephen. 

In  the  presence  of  Mr.  Holt  and  Mr.  Friswell,  two  of 
the  directors. 

Vallance. 

And  his  bank ? 

James. 

London  City  and  Midland.    Four  tin  boxes.    We've  been 
through  'em. 

Stephen. 

The  most  likely  place  of  deposit,  I  should  have  thought, 
was  the  safe  in  this  room. 

Ponting. 

Exactly.     The  will  would  have  been  there  if  there  had 
been  a  will  at  all. 

[James  switches  on  the  light  of  the  lamp  which  stands 
above  the  cupboard  at  the  further  end  of  the  dwarf- 
bookcase. 

James. 
[Opening  the  cupboard  and  revealing  a  safe.]     Yes,  this 
is  where  my  brother's  private  papers  are. 

Stephen. 
This  was  his  library  and  sanctum. 

James. 
[Listening    as    he    shuts    the    cupboard    door.]       Hallo! 
[Opening  the  room  door  a  few  inches  and  peering  into  the 
hall.]     Here  is  Elkin.     [There  is  a  slight  general  movement 


52  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

denoting  intense  interest  and  suspense.  Ann  gets  to  her 
feet.  James  closes  the  door  and  comes  foward  a  little — 
grimly.]  Well!  Hey!  I  wonder  whether  he's  found  any- 
thing in  Lemon  Street? 

PONTING. 
[Clutching   Rose's  shoulder  and  dropping   lack   into   his 
chair — under  his  breath.]      Good  God! 

Ann. 

[Staring  at  her  husband.]     James ! 

James. 
[Sternly.]     Go  and  sit  down,  mother.   [Ann  retreats  and 
seats  herself  beside  Rose.]     If  he  has,  we  ought  to  feel  glad; 
that's  how  we  ought  to  feel. 

Stephen. 
[Resentfully.]     Of  course  we  ought.    That's  how  we  shall 
feel. 

James. 
Poor  old  Ned !  It's  his  wishes  we've  got  to  consider — 
[returning  to  the  door]  his  wishes.  [Opening  the  door 
again.]  Come  in,  Mr.  Elkin.  Waiting  for  you,  sir.  [He 
admits  Elkin,  a  gray-haired,  elderly  man  of  sixty.  Presents 
Vallance.]  Mr.  Vallance — Crake  and  Vallance,  Single- 
hampton,  our  solicitors.  [Elkin  advances  and  shakes  hands 
with  Vallance.]  Mr.  Vallance  has  just  run  over  to  see 
how  we're  getting  on. 

Elkin. 

[To  Vallance,  genially.]  I  don't  go  often  to  Single- 
hampton  nowadays.  I  recollect  the  time,  Mr.  Vallance, 
when  the  whole  of  the  south  side  of  the  town  was  meadow- 
land.  Would  you  believe  it — meadow-land!  And  where 
they've  built  the  new  hospital,  old  Dicky  Dunn,  the  farmer, 
used  to  graze  his  cattle.  [To  James,  who  is  touching  his 
sleeve.]      Eh? 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  53 

James. 
[Rather  huskily.]     Excuse  me.     Any  luck? 

Elkin. 

Luck? 

James. 
In  Lemon  Street.     Find  anything? 

Elkin. 

[Shaking  his  head.]  No.  There  is  nothing  there  in  your 
brother's  name.  [Again  there  is  a  general  movement,  but 
this  time  of  relief.]      It  was  worth  trying. 

James. 
Oh,  it  was  worth  trying. 

Stephen. 
[Heartily.]      Everything's  worth  trying. 

Ponting. 
[Jumping  up.]     Everything.     Mustn't  leave  a  stone  un- 
turned. 

[The  strain  being  over,  Rose  and  Ann  rise  and  go  to 
the  fireplace,  where  Ponting  joins  them.  Thaddeus 
moves  away  and  seats  himself  at  the  centre  window. 

Elkin. 
[Sitting   beside   the   writing-table.]      This    is   a   puzzling 
state  of  affairs,  Mr.  Vallance. 

Vallance. 
Oh,  come,  Mr.  Elkin! 

Elkin. 

I  don't  want  to  appear  uncivil  to  these  ladies  and  gentle- 
men— very  puzzling. 


54  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

Vallance. 
Scarcely    what   one   would    have    expected,    perhaps;    but 
what  is  there  that's  puzzling  about  it? 

James. 
[Standing  by  Elkin.]     People  have  died  intestate  before 
to-day,  Mr.  Elkin. 

Stephen. 
It's  a  common  enough  occurrence. 

Vallance. 

[To  Elkin.]      I  understand  you  acted  for  the  late  Mr. 
Mortimore  for  a  great  many  years? 

Elkin. 
Ever  since  he  came  to  Linchpool. 

Vallance. 

His  most  prosperous  years. 

[Elkin  assents  silently. 

James. 
When  he  was  making  money  to  leave. 

Vallance. 

f  To    Elkin.]      And    the   subject   of   a   will    was    never 
broached  between  you? 

Elkin. 

I  won't  say  that.     I've  thrown  out  a  hint  or  two  at  dif- 
ferent times. 

Vallance. 

Without  any  response  on  his  part? 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  55 

Elkin. 

Without  any  practical  response,  I  admit.  [James  and 
Stephen  shrug  their  shoulders.]  But  he  must  have  em- 
ployed other  solicitors  previous  to  my  connection  with  him. 
I  can't  trace  his  having  done  so;  but  no  commercial  man 
gets  to  eight-and-thirty  without  having  something  to  do  with 
us  chaps. 

Vallance. 

{Sitting  on  the  settee  on  the  left.]  Assuming  a  will  of 
long  standing,  he  may  have  destroyed  it,  may  he  not,  re- 
cently? 

Elkin. 
Recently  ? 

Vallance. 

Quite  recently.  Here  we  have  a  man  at  variance  with  his 
family  and  dangerously  ill.  What  do  we  find  him  doing? 
We  find  him  summoning  his  relatives  to  his  bedside  and  be- 
coming reconciled  to  them 

James. 

Completely  reconciled. 

Stephen. 
Completely. 

Elkin. 

[To  Vallance.]  At  my  persuasion.  I  put  pressure  on 
him  to  send  for  his  belongings. 

Vallance. 

Indeed?  Granting  that,  isn't  it  reasonable  to  suppose 
that  subsequent  to  this  reconciliation ? 

Elkin. 

Oh,  no:  he  destroyed  no  document  of  any  description 
after  he  took  to  his  bed.    That  I've  ascertained. 


56  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

Vallance. 

Well,  theorizing  is  of  no  use,  is  it?  We  have  to  deal 
with  the  simple  fact,  Mr.  Elkin. 

James. 

Yes,  that's  all  we  have  to  deal  with. 

Stephen. 

The  simple  fact. 

Elkin. 

No  will. 

PONTING. 

[Who,  with  the  rest,  has  been  following  the  conversation 
between  Elkin  and  Vallance.]     No  will. 

Elkin. 

{After  a  pause.]  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Vallance,  there  is 
one  thing  I  shouldn't  have  been  unprepared  for? 

Vallance. 

What? 

Elkin. 

A  will  drawn  by  another  solicitor,  behind  my  back,  during 
my  association  with  Mr.  Mortimore. 

Vallance. 

Behind  your  back? 

Elkin. 

He  was  a  most  attractive  creature — one  of  the  most  en- 
gaging and  one  of  the  ablest,  I've  ever  come  across;  but  he 
was  remarkably  secretive  with  me  in  matters  relating  to  his 
private  affairs — remarkably  secretive. 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  57 

Vallance. 
Secretive  ? 

Elkin. 

Reserved,  if  you  like.  Why,  it  wasn't  till  a  few  days 
before  his  death — last  Saturday — it  wasn't  till  last  Saturday 
that  he  first  spoke  to  me  about  this  child  of  his. 

Vallance. 

Child? 

Elkin. 

This  young  lady  we  are  going  to  see  presently. 

Vallance. 

[Looking  at  James  and  Stephen.]  Oh,  I — I  haven't 
heard  anything  of  her. 

Elkin. 

Bless  me,  haven't  you  been  told? 

James. 

[Uncomfortably.']  We  hadn't  got  as  far  as  that  with 
Mr.  Vallance. 

Stephen. 

[Clearing  his  throat.]  Mr.  Elkin  did  not  think  fit  to  in- 
form us  of  her  existence  till  yesterday. 

James. 

[Looking  at  his  watch.]  Twelve  o'clock  she's  due,  isn't 
she? 

Elkin. 

[To  James.]  You  fixed  the  hour.  [To  Vallance.] 
I  wrote  to  her  at  the  same  time  that  I  communicated  with 
his  brothers.    Unfortunately  she  was  away,  visiting. 


58  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

Stephen. 
She's  studying  painting  at  one  of  these  art-schools  in  Paris. 

Elkin. 

She  arrived  late  last  night.  Mrs.  Elkin  and  I  received 
her.    Only  four-and-twenty.    A  nice  girl. 

Vallance. 
Is  the  mother  living? 

Elkin. 
No. 

James. 
The  mother  was  a  person  of  the  name  of  Thornhill. 

Stephen. 

Calling  herself  Thornhill — some  woman  in  London.  She 
died  when  the  child  was  quite  small. 

James. 

[With  a  jerk  of  the  head  towards  the  safe.]  There's  a 
bundle  of  the  mother's  letters  in  the  safe. 

Elkin. 

This  meeting  with  the  family  is  my  arranging.  As  mat- 
ters stand,  Miss  Thornhill  is  absolutely  unprovided  for,  Mr. 
Vallance.  And  there  was  the  utmost  affection  between  Mr. 
Mortimore  and  his  daughter — as  he  acknowledged  her  to  be 
— undoubtedly.  Now  you  won't  grumble  at  me  for  my  use 
of  the  word  "puzzling"? 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  59 

Vallance. 

[Looking  round.]  I  am  sure  my  clients,  should  the  re- 
sponsibility ultimately  rest  with  them,  will  do  what  is  just 
and  fitting  with  regard  to  the  young  lady. 

James. 
More  than  just — more  than  just,  if  it's  left  to  me. 


Stephen. 

We  should   be   only   too   anxious  to  behave   in   a  liberal 
manner,  Mr.  Vallance. 

Louisa. 

We're   parents   ourselves — all    except   Colonel    and    Mrs. 
Ponting. 

Ann. 

My  own  girl — my  Cissy — is  nearly  four-and-twenty. 

Rose. 

{Seated  upon  the  fender-stool.]     I  suppose  we  should  have 
to  make  her  an  allowance  of  sorts,  shouldn't  we? 

James. 
A  monthly  allowance. 

Stephen. 
Monthly  or  quarterly. 

Ponting. 

Yes,   but  this  art-school   in   Paris — you've   no  conception 
what  that  kind  of  fun  runs  into. 


6o  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

James. 

Schooling  doesn't  go  on  forever,  Colonel. 

PONTING. 

But  it'll  lead  to  an  atelier — a  studio — if  you're  not  care- 
ful. 

Rose. 

The  art-school  could  be  dropped,  surely? 

Stephen. 

Perhaps  the  art-school  isn't  strictly  necessary. 

Rose. 

And  she  has  an  address  in  a  most  expensive  quarter  of 
Paris — didn't  you  say,  Jim? 

James. 
The  Colonel  says  it's  a  swell  locality. 

PONTING. 

Most  expensive.     The   father — if   he   was  her   father — 
seems  to  have  squandered  money  on  her. 

Stephen. 
Well,  well,  we  shall  see  what's  to  be  done. 

PONTING. 

Squandered  money  on  her  recklessly. 

James. 

Yes,  yes,  we'll  see,  Colonel ;  we'll  see. 

[Phyllis,   who  has  taken  no  part  in  what  has  been 
going  on,  suddenly  rises.     She  is  a  woman  of  thirty- 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  61 

five,  white-faced  and  faded,  but  with  decided  traces 
of  beauty.    Everybody  looks  at  her  in  surprise. 


Phyllis. 
[Falteringly.]     I — I  beg  your  pardon- 

Louisa. 


[Startled.]     Good  gracious  me,  Phyllis! 

«  Phyllis. 

[Gaining  firmness  as  she  proceeds.]  I  beg  your  pardon. 
With  every  respect  for  Rose  and  Colonel  Ponting,  if  we 
come  into  Edward  Mortimore's  money,  we  mustn't  let  it 
make  an  atom  of  difference  to  the  child. 

Louisa. 
Really,  Phyllis! 

Stephen. 
[Stiffly.]     My  dear  Phyllis 

James. 

[Half  amused,  half  contemptuously.]  Oh,  we  mustn't, 
mustn't  we,  Phyllis? 

Phyllis. 

He  was  awfully  devoted  to  her  in  his  lifetime,  it  turns 
out.    Colonel  Ponting  and  Rose  ought  to  remember  that. 

Ponting. 

[Walking  away  in  umbrage  to  the  window  on  the  left, 
followed  by  Rose.]     Thank  you,  Mrs.  Thaddeus. 


62  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

Thaddeus. 
[Who  has  risen  and  come  to  the  writing-table.}     Phyl — 

Phyl 

Phyllis. 

[To  James  and  Stephen.]  Jim — Stephen — you  couldn't 
stint  the  girl  after  pocketing  your  brother's  money;  you 
couldn't  do  it! 


Ann. 


James- 


James. 
Eh,  mother? 

Ann. 
I  don't  think  we  need  to  be  taught  our  duty  by  Phyllis. 

Stephen. 

[Rising  and  going  over  to  the  fireplace.}     Frankly,  I  don't 
think  we  need. 

Louisa. 

[Following  him.}     Before  Mr.  Elkin  and  Mr.  Vallance! 

Thaddeus. 
Stephen — Lou — you  don't  understand  Phyl. 

James. 
It  isn't  for  want  of  plain  speaking,  Tad. 

Thaddeus. 
[Sitting  at  the  zvriting-table.]      No,  but  listen — Jim 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  63 

James. 

[Joining  those  at  the  fireplace.}  Blessed  if  I've  ever  been 
spoken  to  in  this  style  in  my  life! 

Thaddeus. 

Jim,  listen.  If  we  come  into  Ned's  money,  we  come  into 
his  debts  into  the  bargain.  There  are  no  assets  without 
liabilities.  The  girl's  a  debt — a  big  debt,  as  it  were.  Well, 
what  does  she  cost?  Five  hundred  a  year?  Six — seven 
— eight  hundred  a  year?  What's  it  matter?  What  would 
a  thousand  a  year  matter?  Whatever  Ned  could  afford, 
we  could,  amongst  us.  Why  he  should  have  neglected 
to  make  Miss  Thornhill  independent  is  a  mystery — I'm  with 
you  there,  Mr.  Elkin.  Perhaps  his  sending  for  us,  and 
shaking  hands  with  us  as  he  did,  was  his  way  of  giving  her 
into  our  charge.  Heaven  knows  what  was  in  his  mind.  But 
this  is  certain — if  it  falls  to  our  lot  to  administer  to  Ned's 
estate,  we  administer,  not  only  to  the  money,  but  to  the  girl, 
and  the  art-school,  and  her  comfortable  lodgings,  and  any- 
thing else  in  reason.  There's  nothing  offensive  in  our  saying 
this. 

Elkin. 

Not  in  the  least. 

Thaddeus. 

[With  a  deprecating  little  laugh.}  Ha!  We  don't  often 
put  our  oar  into  family  discussions,  Phyl  and  I.  Stephen — 
[turning  in  his  chair}     Rosie 

James. 

[Looking  down  on  Thaddeus — grinning.]  Hallo,  Tad! 
Why,  I've  always  had  the  credit  of  being  the  speaker  0' 
the  family.    You're  developing  all  of  a  sudden. 

[Heath  enters. 


64  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

Heath. 

[Looking   round    the    room.]       Mrs.    Thaddeus    Morti- 

more ? 

Thaddeus. 

[Pointing  to  Phyllis  who  is  now  seated  in  a  chair  on 
the  right.]     Here  she  is. 

Heath. 

[In  a  hushed  voice.]  Two  young  ladies  from  Roper's  to 
fit  Mrs.  Thaddeus  Mortimore  with  her  mourning. 

Thaddeus. 

[Rising.]  They  weren't  ready  for  Phyllis  at  ten  o'clock. 
[Over  his  shoulder,  as  he  joins  Phyllis  at  the  door.]  Hope 
you  don't  object  to  their  waiting  on  her  here. 

Heath. 

[To  Thaddeus.]     On  the  first  floor,  sir. 

[Phyllis  and  Thaddeus  go  out.     Heath  is  follow- 
ing them. 

Vallance. 

[To   Heath,  rising.]      Er [To   Elkin.]      What's 

his  name? 

Elkin. 

[Calling  to  Heath,  who  returns.]     Heath 

Vallance. 

[Going  to  Heath.]  Have  you  a  room  where  Mr.  Elkin 
and  I  can  be  alone  for  a  few  minutes? 

Heath. 
There's  the  dining-room,  sir. 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  65 

Vallance. 

[Turning  to  Elkin.]  Shall  we  have  a  little  talk  to- 
gether ? 

Elkin. 
[Rising.]     By  all  means. 

Vallance. 
[To  the  others.]     Will  you  excuse  us? 

Elkin. 

[Taking  ValLance's  arm.]  Come  along.  [Passing  out 
with  Vallance — regretfully.]  Ah,  Heath,  the  dining- 
room ! 

Heath. 

[As  he  disappears,  closing  the  door.]  Yes,  Mr.  Elkin; 
that's  over,  sir. 

James. 

[Who  has  crossed  over  to  the  right,  to  watch  the  with- 
drawal of  Elkin  and  Vallance.]  What  have  those  two 
got  to  say  to  each  other  on  the  quiet  in  such  a  deuce  of  a 
hurry? 

PONTING. 

[Coming  forward.]  My  dear  good  friends,  I  beg  you 
won't  think  me  too  presuming 

James. 
[Sourly.]     What  is  it,  Colonel? 

PONTING. 

But  you  mustn't,  you  really  mustn't,  allow  yourselves  to 
be  dictated  to — bullied 


66  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  1 

James. 
Bullied? 

PONTING. 

Into  doing  anything  that  isn't  perfectly  agreeable  to  you. 

Stephen. 
You  consider  we're  being  bullied,  Colonel? 

James. 
If  it  comes  to  bullying 

PONTING. 

It  has  come  to  bullying,  if  I'm  any  judge  of  bullying. 
First,  you  have  Mr.  Elkin,  a  meddlesome,  obstructive 

Stephen. 

{Sitting  at  the  writing-table.}  Oh,  he's  obviously  antago- 
nistic to  us — obviously. 

PONTING. 

Of  course  he  is.  He  sniffs  a  little  job  of  work  over  this 
Miss  Thornhill.  It's  his  policy  to  cram  Miss  Thornhill 
down  our  throats.     That's  his  game. 

James. 

[Between  his  teeth.]     By  George ! 

Ponting. 
And  then  you  get  Mr.  Vallance,  your  own  lawyer 

James. 

[Sitting  in  a  chair  on  the  right.]  Aye,  I'm  a  bit  disap- 
pointed with  Vallance. 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  67 

PONTING. 

Dogmatizing  about  what  is  just  and  what  is  fitting 

Stephen. 

Hear,  hear,  Colonel!     You  don't  pay  a  solicitor  to  take 
sides  against  you. 

James. 

As  if  we  couldn't  be  trusted  to  do  the  fair  thing  of  our 
own  accord ! 

*  PONTING. 

The  upshot  being  that  Miss  Thornhill,  supported  openly 
by  the  one,  and  tacitly  by  the  other,  will  be  marching  in 

here  and — and 

James. 

Kicking  up  a  rumpus. 

PONTING. 

I  shouldn't  be  surprised. 

Louisa. 

A  rumpus!      [Sitting  upon  the  settee  on  the  left.]      She 
wouldn't  dare. 

Ann. 

[Rising.]     That  would  be  terrible — a  rumpus 


Rose. 

[In  the  middle  of  the  room.]      I  shouldn't  be  surprised 
either.     You   mustn't   expect   too   much,    you   know,    from 

a  girl  who's 

Stephen. 

[Interpreting  Rose's  shrug.]      Illegitimate. 


68  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

Ann. 

No,  I  suppose  we  oughtn't  to  expect  her  to  be  the  same 
as  our  children. 

PONTING. 

And  finally,  to  cap  it  all,  you  have  your  brother  Thaddeus 

— your  brother 

James. 

Ha,  yes !  Tad  obliged  us  with  a  pretty  stiff  lecture,  didn't 
he? 

Louisa. 

So  did  Phyllis. 

Ann. 

[Seating  herself  beside  Louisa.]  It  was  Phyllis  who  be- 
gan it. 

Rose. 

[Swaying  herself  to  and  fro  upon  the  back  of  the  chair 
next  to  the  writing-table.]  Tad's  wife!  She's  a  suitable 
person  to  be  lectured  by,  I  must  say. 

Stephen. 

Poor  old  Tad!  He  was  only  trying  to  excuse  her  rude- 
ness. 

Rose. 

Just  fancy!  The  two  Tads  sharing  equally  with  our- 
selves ! 

Stephen. 

It  is  curious,  at  first  sight. 

Rose. 

Extraordinary. 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  69 

Stephen. 
But,  naturally,  the  law  makes  no  distinctions. 

Rose. 

No.     It  was  the  lady's  method  of  announcing  that  she's 
as  good  as  we  are. 

James. 

Tad   and   his  wife  with   forty  or  fifty  thousand  pound, 
p'r'aps,  to  play  with!    So  the  world  wags. 

Rose. 
Positively  maddening. 

Louisa. 
We  shall  see  Phyllis  aping  us  now  more  than  ever. 

Ann. 
And  making  that  boy  and  girl  of  hers  still  more  conceited. 

Louisa. 
They  needn't  let  apartments  anv  longer;  that's  a  mercy. 

Ann. 
We  shall  be  spared  that  disgrace. 

James. 
Strong  language,  mother! 

Stephen. 

Hardly  disgrace.    You  can't  call  the  curate  of  their  parish 
church  a  lodger  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  term. 


70  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

Louisa. 

Phyllis's  girl  might  make  a  match  of  it  with  Mr.  Trist 
in  a  couple  of  years'  time.     She's  fifteen. 

Ann. 
A  forward  fifteen. 

Rose. 

It's  a  fairy  story.     A  woman  who's  brought  nothing  but 
the  worst  of  luck  to  Tad  from  the  day  he  married  her ! 

James. 

The  devil's  luck. 

Stephen. 

Been  his  ruin — his  ruin  professionally — without  the 
shadow  of  a  doubt. 

Louisa. 
Such  a  good-looking  fellow  he  used  to  be,  too. 

Ann. 
Handsome. 

Louisa. 

[Archly.]  It  was  Tad  I  fell  in  love  with,  Stephen — not 
with  you. 

Stephen. 

And  popular.  He'd  have  had  the  conductorship  of  the 
choral  societies  but  for  his  mistake;  Rawlinson  would  never 
have  had  it.  Councillor  Pritchard  admitted  as  much  at  a 
committee-meeting. 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  71 

PONTING. 

[Seated  upon  the  settee  on  the  right.]     Butcher — the  wife's 
father — wasn't  he? 

Rose. 

Just  as  bad.     Old  Burdock  kept  a  grocer's  shop  at  the 
corner  of  East  Street. 

Stephen. 
West  Street. 

*  Rose. 

West  Street,  was  it?    She's  the  common  or  garden  over- 
educated  petty-tradesman's  daughter. 


James. 

[Oratorically.]      No,    no;   you   can't    overeducate,    Rose. 
You  can  wrongly  educate 

Rose. 

Oh,  don't  start  that,  Jim.     [To  Ponting.]     She  was  a 
pupil  of  Tad's. 

Stephen. 

[Holding  up  his  hands.]     Marriage — marriage ! 

Louisa. 
Stephen ! 

James. 

If  it  isn't  the  right  sort  o'  marriage ! 

Stephen. 
Poor  old  Tad! 


72  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

James. 
Rich  old  Tad   to-day,   though!      [Chuckling.]      Ha,  ha! 

Rose. 

[Glancing  at  the  door.]     Sssh ! 

[Thaddeus  returns.     The  others  look  down  their  noses 
or  at  distant  objects. 

Thaddeus. 

[Closing   the   door   and   advancing.]      I — I    hope    you're 
not  angry  with  Phyllis. 

Stephen. 

[Resignedly.]     Angry? 

Thaddeus. 
Or  with  me. 

Ann. 

Anger  would  be  out  of  place  in  a  house  of  mourning. 

James. 
Women's  tongues,  Tad! 

Stephen. 
Yes;  the  ladies — they  will  make  mischief. 

Louisa. 

Not  every  woman,  Stephen. 

Thaddeus. 

Phyllis  hasn't  the  slightest  desire  to  make  mischief.    Why 
on  earth  should  Phyl  want  to  make  mischief?      [Sitting  in 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  73 

the  chair  in  the  middle  of  the  room.]      She's  a  little  nervy 
— a  little  unstrung;  that's  what's  the  matter  with  Phyllis. 

Louisa. 

There's  no  cause  for  her  to  be  specially  upset  that  I  can 
think  of. 

Ann. 

She  didn't  know  Edward  in  the  old  days  as  we  did. 

Thaddeus. 

No,  but  being  with  him  on  Wednesday  night,  when  the 
change  came — that's  affected  her  very  deeply,  poor  girl ; 
bowled  her  over.     [To  Rose.]     She  helped  to  nurse  him. 

Rose. 
[Indifferently.]     One  of  the  nurses  cracked  up,  didn't  she? 

James. 
The  night-nurse. 

Thaddeus. 

[Nodding.]  Sent  word  late  on  Wednesday  afternoon 
that  she  couldn't  attend  to  her  duties. 

Stephen. 
The  day-nurse  knocking  off  at  eight  o'clock!     Dreadful! 

Thaddeus. 

There  we  were,  rushing  about  all  over  the  place — all 
over  the  place — to  find  a  substitute. 

James. 
And  no  success. 


74  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

Thaddeus. 

[Rubbing    his   knees.]      There's   where    Phyllis    came    in 
handy ;  there's  where  Phyl  came  in  handy. 

Louisa. 

Phyllis  hadn't  more  than  two  or  three  hours  of  it,  while 
Ann  and  I  were  resting,  when  all's  said  and  done. 

Ann. 
Not  more  than  two  or  three  hours  alone,  at  the  outside. 


Thaddeus. 

No;  but,  as  I  say,  it  was  during  those  two  or  three  hours 
that  the  change  set  in.     It's  been  a  shock  to  her. 

Louisa. 
The  truth  is,  Phyllis  delights  in  making  a  fuss,  Tad. 

Thaddeus. 
Phyl! 

Ann. 
She  loves  to  make  a  martyr  of  herself. 

Thaddeus. 
Phyl  does! 

Louisa. 

You  delight  to  make  a  martyr  of  her,  then ;  perhaps  that's 
it. 

Ann. 

I  suppose  you  do  it  to  hide  her  faults. 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  75 

Louisa. 

It  would  be  far  more  sensible  of  you,  Tad,  to  strive  to 
correct  them 

Ann. 
If  it's  not  too  late — far  more  sensible. 

Louisa. 

And    teach    her    a    different    system    of    managing    her 
home- 

Ann. 

And  how  to  bring  up  her  children  more  in  keeping  with 
their  position 

Louisa. 

With  less  pride  and  display. 

Ann. 
They  treat  their  cousins  precisely  like  dirt. 

Louisa. 
Dirt  under  the  foot. 

Ann. 

Why  Phyllis  can't  be  satisfied  with  a  cook-general  passes 
my  comprehension 

Rose. 

[Wearily.']     Oh,  shut  up! 

James. 
Steady,  mother! 


76  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

Thaddeus. 

[Looking  at  them  all.]      Ah,  you've  never  liked   Phyllis 
from  the  beginning,  any  of  you. 


Louisa. 
Never  liked  her! 

Thaddeus. 

Never  cottoned  to  her,  never  appreciated  her.  Oh,  I 
know — old  Mr.  Burdock's  shop!  [Simply.]  Well,  Ann; 
well,  Lou ;  shop  or  no  shop,  there's  no  better  wife — no  better 
woman — breathing  than  Phyl. 

Louisa. 

One  may  like  a  person  without  being  blind  to  shortcom- 
ings. 

Ann. 
Nobody's  flawless — nobody. 

Louisa. 

There  are  two  sides  to  every  person  as  well  as  to  every 
question,  I  always  maintain. 

Thaddeus. 

However,  maybe  it  won't  matter  so  much  in  the  future. 
It  hasn't  made  things  easier  for  us  in  the  past.  [Snapping 
his  fingers  softly.]     But  now 

Stephen. 

[Caustically.]  Henceforth  you  and  your  wife  will  be 
above  the  critical  opinion  of  others,  eh,  Tad  ? 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  77 

James. 

Aye,  Tad's  come  into  money  now.  Mind  what  you're  at, 
mother !    Be  careful,  Lou !    Tad's  come  into  money. 

Thaddeus. 

[In  a  quiet  voice,  but  clenching  his  hands  tightly.]  My 
God,  I  hope  I  have!  I'm  not  a  hypocrite,  Jim.  My  God, 
I  hope  I  have! 

[  The  door  opens  and  Elkin  appears. 
-■* 

Elkin. 

Miss  Thornhill  is  here.  [There  is  a  general  movement. 
Thaddeus  walks  away  to  the  fireplace.  James,  Stephen, 
and  Ponting  also  rise  and  Rose  joins  Ponting  at  the 
library-table.  Ann  and  Louisa  shake  out  their  skirts  for- 
midably, their  husbands  taking  up  a  position  near  them. 
Helen  Thornhill  enters,  followed  by  Vallance,  who 
closes  the  door.  Elkin  presents  Helen.]  Miss  Thornhill. 
[To  Helen,  pointing  to  the  group  on  the  left.]  These 
gentlemen  are  the  late  Mr.  Mortimore's  brothers.  [Point- 
ing to  Rose.]     His  sister. 

Helen. 

[A  graceful,  brilliant-looking  girl  zuith  perfectly  refined 
manners,  wearing  an  elegant  traveling- dress — almost  in- 
audibly.]     Oh,  yes. 

Elkin. 

[With  a  wave  of  the  hand  toivards  the  others.]  Mem- 
bers of  the  family  by  marriage. 

[She  sits,  at  Elkin's  invitation,  in  the  chair  beside  the 
writing-table.  The  attitude  of  the  James  and 
Stephen  Mortimores,  and  of  the  Pontings,  under- 
goes a  marked  change. 


78  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

James. 

[After  a  pause,  advancing  a  step  or  two.]     I'm  the  eldest 
brother.      [Awkwardly.]     James,  I  am. 

Stephen. 

[Drawing    attention    to    himself    by    an    uneasy    cough.] 
Stephen. 

Ann. 

[Humbly.]     I'm  Mrs.  James. 

Louisa. 
[In  the  same  tone.]     Mrs.  Stephen 

Rose. 

[Seating  herself  on  the  left  of  the  library-table.]     Rose — 
Mrs.  Ponting.     [Glancing  at  Ponting.]      My  husband. 

Thaddeus. 

[Now    standing    behind    the    writing-table.]      Thaddeus. 

My  wife  is  up-stairs,  trying  on  her 

[He   checks  himself  and  retreats,  again   sitting   at   the 
centre  window. 

James. 

[Seating  himself  at  the  writing-table.]     Tired,  I  dessay? 

Helen. 

[Who    has   received   the   various  announcements   with    a 
dignified  inclination  of  the  head.]     A  little. 

Stephen. 

[Bringing  forward  the  armchair  from  the  fireplace.]     You 
weren't  in  Paris,  Mr.  Elkin  tells  us,  when  his  letter ? 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  79 

Helen. 

No;  I  was  nearly  a  nine  hours'  journey  from  Paris,  stay- 
ing with  friends  at  St.  Etienne. 

Rose. 
A  pity. 

Louisa. 
Great  pity. 

,,  Helen. 

Mr.    Elkin's    letter    was    re-posted    and    reached    me    on 
Wednesday.     I  got  back  to  Paris  that  night. 

Elkin. 

[Seating    himself    beside    her.]      And    had    a   hard    day's 
traveling  again  yesterday. 

Stephen. 
[Sitting  in  the  armchair.]     She  must  be  worn  out. 

Ann. 
Indeed  she  must. 

Ponting. 

[Sitting  by  Rose.]     Hot  weather,  too.     Most  exhausting. 

Elkin. 

[To  Helen.]     And  you  were  out  and  about  this  morn- 
ing with  Mrs.  Elkin  before  eight,  I  heard? 

Helen. 
She  brought  me  round  here. 


80  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

Elkin. 

[Sympathetically.]     Ah,  yes. 

James. 

Round  here?  [Elkin  motions  significantly  tavards  the 
ceiling.}  Oh — aye.  [After  another  pause,  to  Helen.] 
When  did  you  see  him  last — alive? 

Helen. 

In   April.      He  spent   Easter  with  me.      [Unobtrusively 

opening   a   little   bag   which    she    carries   and   taking   out   a 

jandkerchief.]       We    always    spent    our    holidays    together. 

[Drying  her  eyes.]      I  was  to  have  met  him  at  Rouen  on 

the  fifteenth  of  next  month;  we  were  going  to  Etretat. 

Elkin. 

[After  a  further  silence.}  Er — h'm! — the  principal  busi- 
ness we  are  here  to  discuss  is,  I  presume,  the  question  of  Miss 
ThornhilPs  future. 

Helen. 
[Quickly.]     Oh,  no,  please. 

Elkin. 

No? 

Helen. 

If  you  don't  mind,  I  would  rather  my  future  were  taken 
for  granted,  Mr.  Elkin,  without  any  discussion. 

Elkin. 
Taken  for  granted? 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  81 

Helen. 

I  am  no  worse  off  than  thousands  of  other  young  women 
who  are  suddenly  thrown  upon  their  own  resources.  I'm 
a  great  deal  better  off  than  many,  for  there's  a  calling  al- 
ready open  to  me — art.  My  prospects  don't  daunt  me  in 
the  least. 


Elkin. 

No,  no;  nobody  wants  to  discourage  you- 


Helen. 

[Interrupting  Elkin.]  I  confess — I  confess  I  am  dis- 
appointed— hurt — that  father  hasn't  made  even  a  slight  pro- 
vision for  me — not  for  the  money's  sake,  but  because — be- 
cause I  meant  so  much  to  him,  I've  always  believed.  He 
would  have  made  me  secure  if  he  had  lived  longer,  I  am 
convinced. 

Elkin. 
[Soothingly.]      Not  improbable;  not  improbable. 

Helen. 

But  I  don't  intend  to  let  my  mind  dwell  on  that.  What 
I  do  intend  to  think  is  that,  in  leaving  me  with  merely 
my  education  and  the  capacity  for  earning  my  living,  he 
has  done  more  for  my  happiness — my  real  happiness — than 
if  he  had  left  me  every  penny  he  possessed.  With  no  incen- 
tive to  work,  I  might  have  drifted  by  and  by  into  an  idle, 
aimless  life.     I  should  have  done  so. 

Stephen. 
A  very  rational  view  to  take  of  it. 


82  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

PONTING. 
Admirable ! 

[There  is  a  nodding  of  heads  and  a  murmur  of  approval 
from  the  ladies. 

Elkin. 

Very  admirable  and  praiseworthy.  [To  the  others,  diplo- 
matically,} But  we  are  not  to  conclude  that  Miss  Thorn- 
hill  declines  to  entertain  the  idea  of  some — some  arrangement 
which    would    enable    her    to    embark    upon    her    artistic 

career 

Helen. 

Yes,  you  are.  I  don't  need  assistance,  and  I  couldn't 
accept  it.  [Flaring  up.]  I  will  accept  nothing  that  hasn't 
come  to  me  direct  from  my  father — nothing.  [Softening.] 
But  I  am  none  the  less  grateful  to  you,  dear  Mr.  Elkin — 
[looking  round]    to  everybody — for  this  kindness. 

Stephen. 
[With  a  sigh.]     So  be  it;  so  be  it,  if  it  must  be  so. 

Ponting. 
We  don't  wish  to  force  assistance  upon  Miss  Thornhill. 

Stephen. 

On  the  contrary;  we  respect  her  independence  of  char- 
acter. 

[Elkin  shrugs  his  shoulders  at  Vallance,  who  is  now 
seated  upon  the  settee  on  the  right. 

James. 

[Stroking  his  beard.]  Art — art.  You've  been  studying 
painting,  haven't  you? 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  83 

Helen. 

At  Julian's,  in  the  Rue  de  Berri,  for  three  years — tor 
pleasure,  I  imagined. 

James. 

[Glancing  furtively  at  Ann.]  D'ye  do  oil  portraits — 
family  groups  and  so  on  ? 

Helen. 

I'm  not  very  successful  as  a  colorist.  Black  and  white  is 
what*  I  am  best  at. 

James. 

[Dubiously.]      Black  and  white 

Stephen. 
Is  there  much  demand  for  that  form  of  art  in  Paris? 

Helen. 
Paris?    Oh,  I  shall  come  to  London. 

James. 
London,  eh? 

Helen. 

My  drawing  isn't  quite  good  enough  for  over  there.  It's 
only  good  enough  for  England.  I  shall  sell  my  jewellery 
and  furniture — I'm  sharing  a  flat  in  the  Avenue  de  Messine 
with  an  American  girl — and  that  will  carry  me  along  ex- 
cellently till  I'm  fairly  started.    Oh,  I  shall  do  very  well. 

Rose. 

I  live  in  London.  My  house  will  be  somewhere  for  you 
to  drop  into,  whenever  you  feel  inclined. 


84  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

Helen. 
Thank  you. 

Ponting. 

[Pulling  at  his  moustache.]     Often  as  you  like — often  as 
you  like 

Rose. 

[Loftily.]     As  I  am  in  "society,"  as  they  call  it,  that  will 
be  nice  for  you. 

James. 

[To  Ann.]     Now,  then,  mother,  don't  you  be  behind- 
hand  

Ann. 
I'm  sure  I  shall  be  very  pleased  if  Miss  Thornton 


A  Murmur. 
Thornhill 

Ann. 

If  she'll  pay  us  a  visit.  We're  homely  people,  but  she 
and  Cissy  could  play  tennis  all  day  long. 

Louisa. 

If  she  does  come  to  Singlehampton,  she  mustn't  go  away 
without  staying  a  day  or  two  in  the  Crescent.  [To  Helen.] 
Do  you  play  chess,  dear?  [Helen  shakes  her  head.]  My 
husband  will  teach  you — won't  you,  Stephen? 

Stephen. 
Honored. 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  85 

Thaddeus. 

[Who  has  risen  and  come  forward.]  I'm  sorry  my  wife 
isn't  here.  We  should  be  grieved  if  Miss  Thornhill  left  us 
out  in  the  cold. 

Helen. 

[Looking  at  him  with  interest.]  You  are  father's  musical 
brother,  aren't  you? 


« 


Thaddeus. 


Yes — Tad. 

Helen. 

[With  a  faint  smile.]  I  promise  not  to  leave  you  out  in 
the  cold.  [To  everybody.]  I  can  only  repeat,  I  am  most 
grateful.  [To  Elkin,  about  to  rise.]  Mrs.  Elkin  is  wait- 
ing for  me,  to  take  me  to  the  dressmaker 

Elkin. 

[Detaining  her.]  One  moment — one  moment.  [To  the 
others.]  Gentlemen,  Mr.  Vallance  and  I  have  had  our  little 
talk  and  we  agree  that  the  proper  course  to  pursue  in  the 
matter  of  the  late  Mr.  Mortimore's  estate  is  to  proceed  at 
once  to  insert  an  advertisement  in  the  public  journals. 

James. 
An  advertisement? 

Elkin. 

With  the  object  of  obtaining  information  respecting  any 
will  which  he  may  have  made  at  any  time. 

James. 
[After  a  pause.]     Oh — very  good. 


86  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

Stephen. 

[Coldly.]      Does  Mr.  Vallance  really  advise  that  this  is 
the  proper  course? 

[Vallance  rises  and  Thaddeus  again  retires. 


Vallance. 
[Assentingly.]     In  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  the  case. 

Elkin. 

We  propose  also  to  go  a  step  further.     We  propose  to 
circularize. 

James. 
Circularize  ? 

PONTING. 
[Disturbed.]     What  the  dev — what's  that? 

Elkin. 

We  propose  to  address  a  circular  to  every  solicitor  in  the 
law-list  asking  for  such  information. 

Helen. 
[To  Elkin.]     Is  this  necessary? 

Elkin. 
Mr.  Vallance  will  tell  us 

Vallance. 

It  comes  under  the  head  of  taking  all  reasonable  measures 
to  find  a  will. 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  87 

Helen. 

[Looking  round.]  I — I  sincerely  hope  that  no  one  will 
think  that  it  is  on  my  behalf  that  Mr.  Elkin 

Elkin. 

[Checking  her.]  My  dear,  these  are  formal,  and  ami- 
cable, proceedings,  to  which  everybody,  we  suggest,  should 
be  a  party. 

«  Vallance. 

Everybody. 

Elkin. 

[Invitingly.]     Everybody. 

James. 

[Breaking  a  chilly  silence.]  All  right.  Go  ahead,  Mr. 
Elkin.     [To  Stephen.]     We're  willing? 

Stephen. 
Why  not;  why  not?    Rose ? 

Rose. 
[Hastily.]     Oh,  certainly. 

Vallance. 

[To  James.]  I  have  your  authority,  Mr.  Mortimore, 
for  acting  with  Mr.  Elkin  in  this  matter? 

James. 
You  have,  sir. 


88  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

Elkin. 

[To  Vallance,  rising.}     Will  you  come  round  to  my 
office  with  me? 

[Helen  rises  with  Elkin,  whereupon  the  other  men 
get  to  their  feet.  Ann  and  Louisa  also  rise  as 
Helen  comes  to  them  and  offers  her  hand. 

Ann. 
[Shaking  hands.]     We're  at  the  Grand  Hotel 

Louisa. 
[Shaking  hands.]     So  am  I  and  my  husband. 

Helen. 
I'll  call,  if  I  may. 

[She  shakes  hands  with  Stephen  and  James  and  goes 
to  Rose. 

Rose. 

[Rising  to  shake  hands  with  her.]     We're  at  the  Grand 
too.     Colonel  Ponting  and  I  would  be  delighted 

PONTING. 

Delighted. 

[Helen  merely  bows  to  Ponting;  then  she  shakes 
hands  with  Thaddeus  and  passes  out  into  the  hall. 

Elkin. 

[Who   has   opened   the   door  for   HELEN — to   everybody, 
genially.]     Good-day;  good-day. 

James  and  Stephen. 

Good-day,  Mr.  Elkin.     Good-day. 

[Elkin  follows  Helen. 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  89 

Vallance. 

[At  the  door — to  James  and  Stephen.]     Where  can  I 
see  you  later? 

James. 
The  Grand.    Food  at  half-past  one. 

Vallance. 

Thank  you  very  much. 

[He  bows  to  the  ladies  and  withdraws,  closing  the  door 
after  him. 

PONTING. 

[Pacing  the  room  indignantly.]      I  wouldn't  give  the  fel- 
low so  much  as  a  dry  biscuit! 

[There  is  a  general  break  up,  Ann  and  LOUISA  join- 
ing Rose  on  the  right. 

James. 

[Pacifically.]     Oh,  there's  no  occasion  to  upset  yourself, 
Colonel. 

PONTING. 

[On  the  left.]      I  wouldn't!     I  wouldn't!     He's  against 
us  on  every  point. 

James. 

Let  'em  advertise,  if  it  amuses  'em.      [In  an  outburst.] 
Let  'em  advertise  and  circularize  till  they're  blue  in  the  face. 

Rose. 
[With  a  shrill  laugh.]     Jim!     Ha!  ha!  ha! 


92  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

James. 

[In  the  doorway — to  Thaddeus,  who  is  now  seated  at 
the  writing-table.]  Tad,  I'll  stand  you  and  your  wife  a  good 
lunch.     One-thirty. 

[Thaddeus  nods  acceptance  and  James  goes  after  the 
others.  Thaddeus  rises,  and,  looking  through  the 
blind  of  the  middle  window,  watches  them  depart. 
Presently  Phyllis  appears,  putting  on  her  gloves. 

Phyllis. 
[At  the  door,  drawing  a  breath  of  relief.]     They've  gone. 

Thaddeus. 
[Turning.]     Is  that  you,  Phyl? 

Phyllis. 

[Corning  further  into  the  room.]  I've  been  waiting  on 
the  landing. 

Thaddeus. 

Why  didn't  you  come  back,  dear?  You've  missed  Miss 
Thornhill. 

Phyllis. 

[Walking  away  to  the  left,  working  at  the  fingers  of  a 
glove.]     Yes,  I — I  know. 

Thaddeus. 
The  very  person  we  were  all  here  to  meet. 

Phyllis. 
I — I  came  over  nervous.     [Eagerly.]     What  is  she  like? 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  93 

Thaddeus. 
Such  an  aristocratic-looking  girl. 

Phyllis. 
Is  she — is  she? 

Thaddeus. 

I'll  tell  you  all  about  her  by  and  by.  [Pushing  the  door 
to  and  coming  to  Phyllis,  anxiously.]  What  do  you  think 
they're  going  to  do  now,  Phyl? 

Phyllis. 
Who? 

Thaddeus. 

The  lawyers.    They're  going  to  advertise. 

Phyllis. 

Advertise? 

Thaddeus. 
In  the  papers — to  try  to  discover  a  will. 

Phyllis. 
I — I  suppose  that's  a  mere  matter  of  form? 

Thaddeus. 

Elkin  and  Vallance  say  so.  According  to  Stephen,  it's 
simply  a  lawyer's  dodge  to  run  up  costs.  [Brightening.] 
Anyhow,  we  mustn't  complain,  where  a  big  estate  is  in- 
volved  

Phyllis. 
Is  it — such  a — big  estate? 


94  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

Thaddeus. 
Guess. 

Phyllis. 
I  can't. 

Thaddeus. 

[Coming  closer  to  her.]  I  heard  Elkin's  managing-clerk 
tell  Jim  and  the  Colonel  this  morning  that  poor  Ned  may 
have  died  worth  anything  between  a  hundred  and  fifty  and 
two  hundred  thousand  pounds. 


Phyllis. 
[Faintly.]     Two  hundred  thousand- 


.1 


Yes. 


Thaddeus. 
Phyllis. 


Oh,  Tad ! 

[She  sits,  on  the  settee  on  the  left,  leaning  her  head  upon 
her  hands. 

Thaddeus. 

Splitting  the  difference,  and  allowing  for  death  duties, 
our  share  would  be  close  upon  forty  thousand.  To  be  on 
the  safe  side,  put  it  at  thirty-nine  thousand.  Thirty-nine 
thousand  pounds!  [Moving  about  the  room  excitedly.]  I've 
been  reckoning.  Invest  that  at  four  per  cent. — one  is  justi- 
fied in  calculating  upon  a  four  per  cent,  basis — invest  thirty- 
nine  thousand  at  four  per  cent.,  and  there  you  have  an  income 
of  over  fifteen  hundred  a  year.  Fifteen  hundred  a  year! 
[Returning  to  her.]  When  we  die,  seven  hundred  and  fifty 
a  year  for  Joyce,  seven  hundred  and  fifty  for  Cyril!  [She 
rises  quickly  and  clings  to  him,  burying  her  head  upon  his 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  95 

shoulder  and  clutching  at  the  lapel  of  his  coat.]  Poor  old 
lady!  [Putting  his  arms  round  her.]  Poor  old  lady!  You've 
gone  through  such  a  lot,  haven't  you? 

Phyllis. 
[Sobbing.]     We  both  have. 

Thaddeus. 
Sixteen  years  of  it. 

„  Phyllis. 

Sixteen  years. 

Thaddeus. 

Of  struggle — struggle  and  failure. 

Phyllis. 

Failure  brought  upon  you  by  your  wife — by  me. 

Thaddeus. 

Nonsense — nonsense 

Phyllis. 

You  always  call  it  nonsense;  you  know  it's  true.  If  you 
hadn't  married  me — if  you'd  married  a  girl  of  better  family 
— you  wouldn't  have  lost  caste  in  the  town 

Thaddeus. 
Hush,  hush!    Don't  cry,  Phyl;  don't  cry,  old  lady. 

Phyllis. 

You'd  have  had  the  choral  societies,  and  the  High  School, 
and  the  organ  at  All  Saints;  you'd  have  been  at  the  top  of 
the  tree  long  ago.    You  know  you  would ! 


96  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

Thaddeus. 

[Rallying  her.}  And  if  you  hadn't  married  me,  you  might 
have  captivated  a  gay  young  officer  at  Claybrook  and  got  to 
London  eventually.  Rose  did  it,  and  you  might  have  done 
it.     So  that  makes  us  quits.    Don't  cry. 

Phyllis. 

[Gradually  regaining  her  composure.}  There  was  a 
young  fellow  at  the  barracks  who  was  after  me. 

Thaddeus. 

[Nodding.]  You  were  prettier  than  Rose,  a  smarter  girl 
altogether. 

Phyllis. 

[Drying  her  eyes.]  I'll  be  smart  again  now,  dear.  I'm 
only  thirty-five.    What's  thirty-five ! 

Thaddeus. 
The  children  won't  swallow  up  everything  now,  will  they? 

Phyllis. 

No;  but  Joyce  shall  look  sweeter  and  daintier  than  ever, 
though. 

Thaddeus. 

Cyril  shall  have  a  first-class,  public-school  education ;  that 
I'm  determined  upon.  There's  Rugby — Rugby's  the  nearest 
— or  Malvern 

Phyllis. 

[With  a  catch  in  her  breath.]  Oh,  but — Tad — we'll 
leave  Singlehampton,  won't  we? 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  97 

Thaddeus. 


Permanently? 
Yes — yes 


Phyllis. 


Thaddeus. 
Won't  that  be  rather  a  mistake? 

Phyllis. 
A  mistake! 

Thaddeus. 
Just  as  we're  able  to  hold  up  our  heads  in  the  town. 

Phyllis. 

We  should  never  be  able  to  hold  up  our  heads  in  Single- 
hampton.  If  we  were  clothed  in  gold,  we  should  still  be 
lepers  underneath ;  the  curse  would  still  rest  on  us. 

Thaddeus. 
[Bewildered.]      But  where — where   shall  we ? 

Phyllis. 

I  don't  care — anywhere.  [Passionately.]  Anywhere 
where  I'm  not  sneered  at  for  bringing  up  my  children  de- 
cently, and  for  making  my  home  more  tasteful  than  my 
neighbors' ;  anywhere  where  it  isn't  known  that  I'm  the 
daughter  of  a  small  shopkeeper — the  daughter  of  "old  Bur- 
dock of  West  Street"!     [Imploringly.]     Oh,  Tad ! 

Thaddeus. 

You're  right.  Nothing  is  ever  forgiven  you  in  the  place 
you're  born  in.     We'll  clear  out. 


98  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  i 

Phyllis. 

[Slipping  her  arm  through  his.]     When — when  will  you 
get  me  away? 

Thaddeus. 

Directly,  directly;  as  soon  as  the  lawyers 

[He  pauses,  looking  at  her  blankly. 

Phyllis. 
[Frightened.]     What's  the  matter? 

Thaddeus. 

We — we're  talking  as  if — as  if  Ned's  money  is  already 
ours! 

Phyllis. 

[Withdrawing  her  arm — steadily.]     It  will  be. 

Thaddeus. 
Will  it,  do  you  think ? 

Phyllis. 

[With  an  expressionless  face.]     I  prophesy — it  will  be. 
[Heath  enters  and,  seeing  Thaddeus  and  Phyllis, 
draws  back. 

Heath. 
I'm  sorry,  sir.     I  thought  the  room  was  empty. 

Thaddeus. 

We're  going.     [As  he  and  Phyllis  pass  out  into  the  hall.] 
Don't  come  to  the  door. 


act  i]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  99 

Heath. 

Thank  you,  sir. 

[HEATH  quietly  and  methodically  replaces  the  chair  at 
the  window  on  the  right.  Then,  after  a  last  look 
round,  he  switches  off  the  lights  and  leaves  the  room 
again  in  gloom. 


END   OF   THE    FIRST   ACT 


THE  SECOND  ACT 

The  scene  represents  the  drawing-room  of  a  modern,  cheaply- 
built  villa.  In  the  wall  at  the  back  are  two  windows. 
One  is  a  bay-window  provided  with  a  window-seat;  the 
other,  the  window  on  the  right,  opens  to  the  ground  into 
a  small  garden.  At  the  bottom  of  the  garden  a  paling 
runs  from  left  to  right,  and  in  the  paling  there  is  a 
gate  which  gives  access  to  a  narrow  lane.  Beyond  are 
the  gardens  and  backs  of  other  houses. 

The  fireplace  is  on  the  right  of  the  room,  the  door  on  the 
left.  A  grand  pianoforte,  with  its  head  towards  the 
windows,  and  a  music-stool  occupy  the  middle  of  the 
room.  On  the  right  of  the  music-stool  there  is  an  arm- 
chair, and  against  the  piano,  facing  the  fireplace,  there 
is  a  settee.  Another  settee  faces  the  audience  at  the 
further  end  of  the  fireplace,  and  on  the  nearer  side, 
opposite  this  settee,  is  an  armchair.  Also  on  the  right 
hand,  but  nearer  to  the  spectator,  there  is  a  round  table. 
An  ottoman,  opposing  the  settee  by  the  piano,  stands 
close  to  the  table. 

At  the  end  of  the  piano  there  is  a  small  table  with  an  arm- 
chair on  its  right  and  left,  and  on  the  extreme  left  of 
the  room  stands  another  armchair  with  a  still  smaller 
table  beside  it.  On  the  left  of  the  bay-window  there  is 
a  writing-table,  and  in  front  of  the  writing-table,  but 
turned  to  the  window,  a  chair.  Other  articles  of  fur- 
niture fill  spaces  against  the  walls. 

There  is  a  mirror  over  the  fireplace  and  a  clock  on  the 
mantel-shelf,  and  lying  upon  the  round  table  are  a  hat 
and  a  pair  of  gloves  belonging  to  Helen.  Some  flowers 
in  pots  hide  the  empty  grate. 

ioo 


act  ii]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  101 

The  room  and  everything  in  the  room  are  eloquent  of  nar- 
row means,  if  not  of  actual  poverty.  But  the  way  in 
ivhich  the  cheap  furniture  is  dressed  up,  and  the  manner 
of  its  arrangement  about  the  room,  give  evidence  of  taste 
and  refinement. 

The  garden  is  full  of  the  bright  sunshine  of  a  fine  July 
afternoon. 

Thaddeus  is  at  the  piano  accompanying  a  sentimental  ballad 
which  Trist,  standing  beside  him,  is  singing.  Phyllis, 
looking  more  haggard  than  ivhen  last  seen,  is  on  the 
settee  by  the  fireplace.  Her  hands  lie  idly  upon  some 
needlework  in  her  lap  and  she  is  in  deep  thought. 
Helen,  engaged  in  making  a  sketch  of  Joyce  and 
Cyril,  who  are  facing  her,  is  sitting  in  the  chair  on 
the  right  of  the  table  at  the  end  of  the  piano.  A 
drawing-block  is  on  her  knees  and  a  box  of  crayons  on 
the  table  at  her  elbow.  Helen  and  the  Thaddeus 
Mortimores  are  dressed  in  mourning,  but  not  oppress- 
ively so. 

Thaddeus. 

[Taking  his  hands  from  the  key-board — to  TRIST.]  No, 
no.     Fill  your  lungs,  man,  fill  your  lungs. 

[Phyllis,  roused  by  the  break  in  the  music,  picks  up 
her  work. 

Trist. 

[A  big,  healthy-looking,  curly-headed  young  fellow  in 
somewhat  shabby  clerical  clothes.]  I'm  afraid  it's  no  good, 
my  dear  chap.    The  fact  is,  air  will  not  keep  in  my  lungs. 


Thaddeus. 
[Starting  afresh  with  the  symphony.]     Once  more- 


102  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  ii 

Helen. 
[To  the  children,  softly.]     Do  you  want  a  rest? 

Cyril. 

[A  handsome  boy  of  fourteen,  standing  close  to  his  sister.] 
No,  thanks. 

Joyce. 

[In  the  chair  on  the  extreme  left — a  slim,  serious  child, 
a  year  older  than  Cyril.]     Oh,  no;  don't  give  us  a  rest. 
[As  the  symphony  ends,  the  door  opens  a  little  way  and 
James  pops  his  head  in. 

James. 
Hallo! 

Thaddeus. 
Hallo,  Jim! 

[James  enters,  followed  by  Stephen  ;  both  with  an  air 
of  bustle  and  self-importance.  They  also  are  in 
mourning,  are  gloved,  and  are  wearing  their  hats 
which  they  remove  on  entering. 

Stephen. 
May  we  come  in? 

James. 

Good-afternoon,  Mr.  Trist. 

Stephen. 
How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Trist? 

Trist. 
[To  James  and  Stephen.]     How  are  you;  how  are  you? 


act  ii]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  103 

James. 

[To  the  children,  kissing  Joyce.]  Well,  kids!  [Shak- 
ing hands  with  Helen.]  Well,  my  dear!  [Crossing  to 
Phyllis,  who  rises.]  Don't  get  up,  Phyllis.  What's  this? 
You're  not  very  bobbish,  I  hear. 

Phyllis. 

[Nervously.]      It's  nothing. 

«  Thaddeus. 

[Tidying  his  music]  She's  sleeping  badly  just  now, 
poor  old  lady. 

Stephen. 

[Who  has  greeted  Helen  and  the  children — to  Phyllis.] 
Oh,  Phyllis,  Louisa  has  discovered  a  wonderful  cure  for 
sleeplessness  at  the  herbalist's  in  Crown  Street.  A  few  dried 
leaves  merely.  You  strew  them  under  the  bed  and  the 
effect  is  magical. 

James. 
Glass  of  warm  milk's  my  remedy 


Stephen. 
Eighteen-pence  an  ounce,  it  costs. 

James. 
Not  that  sleeplessness  bothers  me. 

Phyllis. 

[Sitting    on    the    ottoman    and    resuming    her   work — to 
Stephen.]     Thank  you  for  telling  me  about  it. 


104  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  ii 

James. 
[To  Helen.]     Making  quite  a  long  stay  here. 

Helen. 
[Smiling.]     Am  I  not? 

Stephen. 

You  and  Phyllis,  Tad,  are  more  honored  than  we  were 
in  the  Crescent. 

James. 

Or  we  were  at  "Ivanhoe."     She  was  only  a  couple  o' 
nights  with  us. 

Stephen. 
Less  with  us.    She  arrived  one  morning  and  left  the  next. 

James. 

[To    Helen.]      Been    in    Nelson    Villas   over   a  week, 
haven't  you? 

Helen. 
[Touching  her  drawing.]     Is  it  more  than  a  week? 

James. 

[Looking  at  Helen's  drawing.]     Taking  the  youngsters' 
portraits,  too. 

Stephen. 

[Also  looking  at  the  drawing.]     H'm!     I  suppose  children 
are  difficult  subjects. 


act  ii]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  105 

Trist. 

[Moving  towards  the  door — to  Helen.]     Miss  Thorn- 
hill,  don't  forget  your  engagement. 

Helen. 

[To  Joyce  and  Cyril.]     Mr.  Trist  is  going  to  treat  us 
to  the  flower-show  by  and  by. 


Good  man! 

Cyril. 

Oh,  Mr.  Trist! 

Joyce. 

Stephen. 

[To  Trist.] 

Not 

driving  you 
Trist. 

away, 

I  hope? 

[At  the  door.]     No,  no;  I've  some  work  to  do. 

[He  withdraws.     Stephen  puts  his  hat  on  the  top  of 
the  piano. 

James. 

[After  watching  the  door  close.]  Decent  sort  o'  young 
man,  that;  nothing  of  the  lodger  about  him. 

Stephen. 

I've  always  said  so.  [To  Thaddeus,  lowering  his  voice.] 
Mr.  Trist  knows  how — er — h'm — poor  Edward  left  his 
affairs  ? 

Thaddeus. 
Everybody  does;  it's  all  over  the  town. 


io6  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  ii 

Stephen. 
[Resignedly.]     Yes;  impossible  to  keep  it  to  ourselves. 

James. 

Thanks  to  their  precious  advertisement.  {To  Joyce  and 
Cyril,  loudly.]  Now,  then,  children;  be  off  with  you!  I 
want  to  talk  to  your  father  and  mother. 

Joyce. 
[To  Helen.]    Will  you  excuse  us? 

Cyril. 
Awfully  sorry,  Helen. 

[  The  children  pass  through  the  open  window  into  the 
garden  and  disappear.  Helen  rises  and,  having  laid 
her  drawing-block  aside,  is  following  them. 

James. 

[To  Helen.]  Not  you,  my  dear.  You're  welcome  to 
hear  our  business. 

Helen. 
Oh,  no;  you  mustn't  let  me  intrude. 

Stephen. 

I  think  Helen  ought  to  hear  it.  [Helen  pauses,  standing 
by  the  table  on  the  right.]  I  think  she  ought  to  be  made 
aware  of  what's  going  on. 

James. 
Tad 


act  ii]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  107 

Thaddeus. 
[Coming  forward.]     Eh? 

James. 

The  meeting's  to  take  place  this  afternoon. 

[Phyllis    looks    up    from    her    work   suddenly,   with 
parted  lips. 

Thaddeus. 
This  afternoon? 

Stephen. 
At  four  o'clock. 

Thaddeus. 

[Glancing  at  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece.]  It's  past 
three  now. 

James. 

[Placing  his  hat  on  the  table  at  the  end  of  the  piano  and 
sitting  at  the  left  of  the  table.]  It's  been  fixed  up  at  last 
rather  in  a  hurry. 

Stephen. 

[Sitting  in  the  chair  on  the  extreme  left.]  We  didn't 
get  Elkin's  letter,  telling  us  he  was  coming  through,  till 
this  morning. 

Thaddeus. 

You  might  have  notified  us  earlier,  though,  one  of  you. 
Just  like  you  fellows! 

Stephen. 

[Waving  his  arms.]  On  the  day  I  go  to  press  I've  quite 
enough  to  remember. 


io8  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  ii 

James. 

[To  Thaddeus,  roughly.]  It's  your  holiday-time;  what 
have  you  got  to  do?    An  hour's  notice  is  as  good  as  a  week's. 

Stephen. 

[To  Helen.]  This  is  a  meeting  of  the  family,  Helen, 
to  be  held  at  my  brother's  house,  for  the  purpose  of — er 

Helen. 

[Advancing  a  little.]     Winding  matters  up? 

James. 
For  the  purpose  of  receiving  Elkin  and  Vallance's  report. 

Helen. 
[Keenly.]     And  to ? 

James. 

And  to  decide  upon  the  administration  of  the  estate  on 
behalf  of  the  next-of-kin. 

Helen. 

In  my  words — wind  matters  up.  [With  an  appearance 
of  cheerfulness.]  Which  means  an  end  to  a  month's  sus- 
pense, doesn't  it? 

Thaddeus. 

[Apologetically.]      A  not  very  satisfactory  end  to  yours. 

Helen. 

To  mine?  [With  an  effort.]  Oh,  I — I've  suffered  no 
suspense,  Mr.  Tad.  Mr.  Elkin  has  kept  me  informed  of 
the  result  of  the  advertising  and  the  circularizing  from  the 
beginning. 


act  ii]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  109 

Thaddeus. 
But  there  has  been  no  result. 

Helen. 
No  result  is  the  result. 

Stephen. 
Exactly. 

[During  the  following  talk,  Helen  moves  away  and 
seats  herself  in  the  chair  by  the  head  of  the  piano. 
Phyllis  has  resumed  her  work  again,  bending  over 
it  so  that  her  face  is  almost  hidden. 

Thaddeus. 

[To  James  and  Stephen.]     Will  Rose  and  the  Colonel 
be  down? 

James. 

We're  on  our  way  to  the  station  to  meet  'em. 

Stephen. 
[Bitterly.]     Ha!    Will  they  be  down? 

Thaddeus. 
You  didn't  overlook  them,  evidently. 

James. 

[With  a  growl.]      No;  the  gallant  Colonel  doesn't  give 
us  much  chance  of  overlooking  him. 

Stephen. 

Colonel    Ponting   might    be    the    only    person    interested, 
judging  by  the  tone  he  adopts. 


no  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  ii 

James. 
A  nice  life  he's  been  leading  us  lately. 

Stephen. 
Elkin  and  Vallance  are  sick  of  him 

James. 

Hasn't   two   penny   pieces   to   clink    together;   that's    the 
size  of  it. 

Stephen. 
A  man  may  be  hard  up  and  yet  behave  with  dignity. 

James. 
I  expect  the  decorators  are  asking  for  a  bit  on  the  nail. 

Thaddeus. 

[Sitting  on  the  right  of  the  table  at  the  end  of  the  piano.] 
Decorators  ? 

Stephen. 
[To  Thaddeus.]     Haven't  you  heard ? 

Thaddeus. 
No. 

Stephen. 

The      magnificent      house      they've      taken      in      Carlos 
Place ? 

James. 

Close  to  Berkeley  Square. 


act  n]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  in 

Stephen. 
[Correcting  James's  pronunciation.]    Barkeley  Square. 

James. 
Stables  and  motor-garridge  at  the  back. 

Stephen. 

Oh,   yes;   they're   decorating   and    furnishing  most   elabo- 
rately.    Lou  had  a  note  from  Rose  a  day  or  two  since. 

James. 

He'll  strip  my  sister  of  every  penny  she's  come  into,   if 
she  doesn't  look  out. 

Stephen. 

The  gross  indelicacy  of  the  thing  is  what  offends  me.     We 
have  been  content  to  remain  passive. 

James. 

And  I  fancy  our  plans  and  projects  are  as  important  as 
the  Colonel's.       _-^ 

Stephen. 
i  should  assume  so. 

James. 

[To  Stephen,  with  a  jerk  of  the  thumb  towards  Thad- 
deus.]     Shall  I ? 

Stephen. 
No  harm  in  it  now. 

James. 
[To  Thaddeus,  leaning  foivard — impressively.]  Tad 


jia  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  ii 

Thaddeus. 
What? 

James. 

That  land  at  the  bottom  of  Gordon  Street,  where  the 
allotment  grounds  are 


Yes? 
It's  mine. 
Yours,  Jim? 


Thaddeus. 

James. 

Thaddeus. 
James. 


It  belongs  to  me.  I've  signed  the  contract  and  paid  a 
deposit. 

Thaddeus. 

What  do  you  intend  to  do  with  it? 

James. 

What  should  I  intend  to  do  with  it — eat  it?  I  intend 
to  build  there — build  the  finest  avenue  of  houses  in  Single- 
hampton.  [Rising  and  going  to  the  piano,  where  he  traces 
a  plan  on  the  lid  with  his  finger .]  Look  here!  [Thad- 
deus joins  him  and  watches  the  tracing  of  the  plan.]  Here's 
Gordon  Street.  Here's  the  pub  at  the  corner.  I  come  along 
here — straight  along  here — to  Albert  Terrace.  Opposite 
Albert  Terrace  I  take  in  Clark's  piano  factory;  and  where 
Clark's  factory  stands  I  lay  out  an  ornamental  garden  with 
a  fountain  in  the  middle  of  it.  On  I  go  at  a  curve,  to  avoid 
the  playground  of  Fothergill's  school,  till  I  reach  Bolton's 
store.  He  stops  me,  but  I'll  squeeze  him  out  some  day,  as 
sure  as  my  name's  James  Henry!  [To  Thaddeus.]  D'ye 
see? 


act  ii]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  113 

Thaddeus. 
[Uncomfortably,  eyeing  Helen.]     Splendid;  splendid. 

James. 

[Moving  round  the  head  of  the  piano  to  the  right.]  Poor 
old  Ned!  Ha!  my  brother  won't  have  done  so  badly  by 
his  native  town  after  all. 

Thaddeus. 

■« 

[Under  his  breath,  trying  to  remind  JAMES  of  Helen's 
presence.]     Jim — Jim 

James. 

[Obliviously,  coming  upon  Helen.]  D'ye  know  the  spot 
we're  talking  about,  my  dear? 

Helen. 
No. 

James. 

You  must  get  'em  to  walk  you  down  there.  [To  Phyl- 
lis.]    You  trot  her  down  there,  Phyllis. 

Phyllis. 

[Without  raising  her  eyes  from  her  work.]     I  will. 

Stephen. 
[To  James.]     You  haven't  told  them  everything,  Jim. 

James. 

[Sitting  upon  the  settee  by  the  piano.]  Haven't  I? 
[Mopping  his  brow.]      Oh,  your  offices 


ii4  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  ii 

Stephen. 

[To  everybody.]  It  isn't  of  the  greatest  importance,  per- 
haps, but  it's  part  of  James's  scheme  to  erect  an  exception- 
ably  noble  building  in  the  new  road  to  provide  adequate 
printing  and  publishing  offices  for  the  Times  and  Mirror. 

Thaddeus. 
What,  you're  not  deserting  King  Street,  Stephen? 

Stephen. 

[Rising  and  walking  to  the  fireplace.]  Yes,  I've  had 
enough  of  those  cramped,  poky  premises. 

Thaddeus. 
They  are  inconvenient. 

Stephen. 

[On  the  hearthrug,  facing  the  others.]  And,  to  be  per- 
fectly frank,  I've  had  enough  of  Mr.  Hammond  and  the 
Courier. 

Thaddeus. 

I  don't  blame  you  there.  The  Courier  is  atrociously 
personal  occasionally. 

Stephen. 

[Pompously.]  I  don't  say  it  because  Hammond  is,  in  a 
manner,  my  rival — I'm  not  so  small-minded  as  that — but 
I  do  say  that  he  is  a  vulgar  man  and  that  the  Courier  is  a 
vulgar  and  mischievous  journal. 

James. 
He's  up  to  date,  though,  is  Mister  Freddy  Hammond. 


act  ii]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  115 

Stephen. 
His  plant  is  slightly  more  modern  than  mine,  I  admit. 

James. 

[Chuckling.]  Aye,  you'll  be  able  to  present  those  ante- 
diluvian printing-presses  of  yours  to  the  museum  as  curi- 
osities. 

Stephen. 

[With  a  wave  of  the  hand.]  Anyhow,  the  construction 
of  Jim's  new  road  marks  a  new  era  in  the  life  of  the  Times 
and  Mirror.  [Leaving  the  fireplace.]  I'm  putting  no  less 
than  twelve  thousand  pounds  into  the  dear  old  paper,  Tad. 

Thaddeus. 

[Standing  by  the  table  on  the  left.]  Twelve  thou- 
sand  ! 

Stephen. 

How  will  that  agree  with  Mr.  Hammond's  digestion, 
eh?  Twelve  thousand  pounds!  [Coming  to  Thaddeus.] 
And  what  are  your  plans  for  the  future,  if  one  may  ask? 
You'll  leave  these  wretched  villas,  of  course? 

Thaddeus. 

[Evasively.]  Oh,  I — I'm  waiting  till  this  law  business  is 
absolutely  settled. 

Stephen. 

[Hastily.]  Quite  right;  quite  right.  So  am  I;  so  am  I, 
actually.    But  we  may  talk,  I  suppose,  among  ourselves 


n6  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  ii 

James. 

[Looking  at  his  watch  and  rising.]      By  George!     We 
shall  miss  Rose  and  the  Colonel. 


Stephen. 
[Fetching  his  hat.]     Pish!  the  Colonel. 

James. 

[Shaking  hands  hurriedly  with  Helen  who  rises.]  Ta-ta, 
my  dear.  [As  he  passes  Phyllis.]  See  you  at  the  meeting, 
Phyllis. 

Stephen. 
[To  Helen,  across  the  piano.]     Good-bye,  Helen. 

James. 

[Who  has  picked  up  his  hat,  at  the  door.]  Don't  be  late, 
Tad. 

Stephen. 

[At  the  door.]     No,  no;  don't  be  late. 

Thaddeus. 
Four  o'clock. 

Stephen. 
Sharp. 

[Thaddeus  follows  James  and  Stephen  into  the  hall 
and  returns  immediately. 

Thaddeus. 

[Closing  the  door.]  My  dear  Helen,  I  apologize  to  you 
most  humbly. 


act  n]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  117 

Helen. 
[Coming  forward.]      For  what? 

Thaddeus. 

For  Jim's  bad  taste,  and  Stephen's,  in  talking  before  you 
as  they've  been  doing. 

Helen. 
Oh.  it's  of  no  consequence. 

Thaddeus. 
I  could  have  kicked  Jim. 

Helen. 

[Impulsively.]  Mr.  Tad — [giving  him  her  hand]  I 
congratulate  you.  [Going  to  Phyllis  and  kissing  her  lightly 
upon  the  cheek.]  I  congratulate  you  both  heartily.  No  two 
people  in  the  world  deserve  good  fortune  more  than  you  do. 

Thaddeus. 

It's  extremely  kind  and  gracious  of  you  to  take  it  in  this 
way. 

Helen. 

Why,  in  what  other  way  could  I  take  it? 

Thaddeus. 

At  your  age,  you  mayn't  esteem  money  very  highly.  But 
— there  are  other  considerations 

Helen. 

[Turning  away  and  seating  herself  upon  the  settee  by  the 
piano.]     Yes,  we  won't  speak  of  those. 


n8  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  ii 

Thaddeus. 

[Walking  to  the  bay-window.}  And  there  was  just  a 
chance  that  the  inquiries  might  have  brought  a  will  to  light 
— a  will  benefiting  you.  Though  you  were  anxious  not  to 
appear  unfriendly  to  the  family,  you  must  have  realized 
that. 

Helen. 

Whether  I  did  or  not,  it's  all  done  with  now  finally — 
finally.      [Blowing  the  subject  from  her.]      Phew! 

Thaddeus. 

[His  elbows  on  the  piano,  speaking  across  it  to  Helen.] 
Phyl  and  I  are  not  altogether  selfish  and  grasping.  She 
has  been  worrying  herself  to  death  these  last  few  days — 
haven't  you,  Phyl? — ever  since  we  heard  the  meeting  was 
near  at  hand. 

Phyllis. 

[In  a  low  voice.]     Yes. 

Thaddeus. 
Ever  since  you  came  to  us,  in  fact. 

Helen. 

[Jumping  up.]  Ah,  what  a  nuisance  I've  been  to  you! 
[Sitting  beside  Phyllis.]  How  relieved  you'll  be  to  pack 
me  off  to-morrow! 

Thaddeus. 
To-morrow  ? 

[Uttering  a  little  sound,   Phyllis  stops  working  and 
stares  straight  before  her. 

Helen. 

[Slipping  an  arm  round  Phyllis's  waist.]      That  letter 
I  had  while  we  were  at  lunch — it  was  from  a  girl  who  used 


act  11]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  119 

to  sit  next  to  me  at  Julian's.  She's  found  me  some  capital 
rooms,  she  says,  close  to  Regent's  Park,  and  I'm  going  up 
to  look  at  them.  [Thaddeus  comes  to  her.]  In  any  event, 
the  sooner  I  get  out  of  Singlehampton  the  better. 

Thaddeus. 

Why? 

Helen. 

Everybody  in  the  town  eyes  me  so  queerly;  I'm  certain 
they  suspect. 

Thaddeus. 
It's  your  imagination. 

Helen. 
It  isn't.     [Hesitatingly.]     I — I've  confided  in  Mr.  Trist. 

Thaddeus. 
[Surprised.]     Confided  in  Trist? 

Helen. 
[Nodding.]      I   hated   the   idea  of  his  thinking  me — de- 
ceitful. 

Thaddeus. 
[Sitting  on  the  settee  by  the  piano.]     Trist  would  never 
have  guessed. 

Helen. 
Oh,  Mr.  Tad,  who,  in  heaven's  name,  that  wasn't  born 
yesterday  could  believe  the  story  of  my  being  simply  a  pro- 
tegee of  father's,  the  daughter  of  an  old  business  friend  of 
his?  Your  brother  Stephen  may  be  an  excellent  editor,  but 
his  powers  of  invention  are  beneath  contempt. 

Thaddeus. 
[Laughing.]      Ha,  ha,  ha!      [Rubbing  his  knees.]     That's 
one  for  Stephen ;  that's  a  rap  for  Stephen. 


120  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  ii 

Helen. 

And  then,  again,  the  other  members  of  the  family  are  be- 
coming so  horribly  jealous. 

Thaddeus. 
[Seriously.]     Ah,  yes. 

Helen. 
You  noticed  your  brother's  remarks?     And   Mrs.  James 
and  Mrs.  Stephen  almost  cut  me  in  East  Street  this  morning. 

Thaddeus. 
[Clenching  his  fists.]     Thank  God,  we  shall  have  done 
with  that  sort  of  thing  directly  we  shake  the  dust  of  Single- 
hampton  from  our  feet! 

Helen. 

Directly  you ! 

Thaddeus. 
[Gaily.]  There!  Now  I've  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag. 
Phyllis  will  tell  you.  You  tell  her,  Phyl.  [Rising.]  I 
promised  Rawlinson  I'd  help  him  index  his  madrigals  this 
afternoon;  I'll  run  round  to  him  and  explain.  [Pausing  on 
his  way  to  the  door.]  Helen,  you  must  be  our  first  visitor 
in  our  new  home,  wherever  we  pitch  our  tent.  Make  that 
a  bargain  with  her,  Phyl.  [At  the  door,  to  Phyllis.]  We'll 
start  at  ten  minutes  to,  old  lady.     Be  ready. 

[He  disappears,  closing  the  door  after  him. 

Helen. 
[Rising  and  walking  away  to  the  left.]  Well!  I  do  think 
it  shabby  of  you,  Phyllis.  You  and  Mr.  Tad  might  have 
trusted  me  with  your  secret.  [Facing  her.]  Phyllis, 
wouldn't  it  be  glorious  if  you  came  to  London  to  live — or 
near  London?    Wouldn't  it? 

Phyllis. 

[In  a  strange,  quiet  voice,  her  hands  lying  quite  still  upon 
her  lap.]     Helen — Helen  dear 


act  ii]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  121 

Helen. 
Yes? 

Phyllis. 

That  morning,  a  month  ago,  in  Linchpoo] — while  we  were 
all  sitting  in  your  poor  father's  library  waiting  for  you 

Helen. 
[Returning  to  her.]     On  the  Friday  morning 

Phyllis. 

There  was  a  discussion  as  to  making  you  an  allowance, 
and — [her  eyes  avoiding  Helen's]  and  everybody  was  most 
anxious — most  anxious — that  you  should  be  placed  upon  a 
proper  footing. 

Helen. 

Mr.  Elkin  broached  the  subject  when  I  arrived.  You 
were  out  of  the  room. 

Phyllis. 

Yes.    And  you  declined 

Helen. 

Certainly.  I  gave  them  my  reasons.  Why  do  you  bring 
this  up? 

[Phyllis  rises,  laying  her  work  upon  the  table  behind 
her. 

Phyllis. 
[Drawing  a  deep  breath.]     Helen — I  want  you  to  recon- 
sider your  decision. 

Helen. 
Reconsider  it? 

Phyllis. 

I  want  you  to  reconsider  your  determination  not  to  ac- 
cept an  allowance  from  the  family. 

Helen. 
Impossible. 


122  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  ii 

Phyllis. 
Oh,  don't  be  so  hasty.     Listen  first.     This  good  fortune 
of  ours — of  Tad's  and  mine — that  you've  congratulated  us 
upon — I  shall  never  enjoy  it 

Helen. 

[Increduously.]      Oh,  Phyllis! 

Phyllis. 

I  shall  not.     It  will  never  bring  me  a  moment's  happiness 

unless  you  consent  to  receive  an  allowance  from  the  family 

—  [Helen   seats   herself   in   the   chair   on   the   extreme   left 

with  her  back  to  Phyllis]  sufficient  to  give  you  a  sense  of 

independence 

Helen. 
I  couldn't. 

Phyllis. 

And  to  make  your  future  perfectly  safe. 

Helen. 
I  couldn't. 

Phyllis. 

[Entreatinffly.]      Do — do 

Helen. 

It's  out  of  the  question. 

Phyllis. 

Please — for  my  sake ! 

Helen. 

[Turning  to  her.]  I'm  sorry  to  distress  you,  Phyllis;  in- 
deed I'm  sorry.  But  when  you  see  me  gaining  some  little 
position  in  London,  through  my  work,  you'll  cease  to  feel 
miserable  about  me. 

Phyllis. 

Never — never 


act  n]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  123 

Helen. 

[Starting  up  and  ivalking  to  the  fireplace  impetuously.] 
Oh,  you  don't  understand  me — my  pride.  A  pensioner  of 
the  Mortimore  family!  I!  How  can  you  suggest  it?  I 
refused  their  help  before  I  was  fully  acquainted  with  these, 
to  me,  uncongenial  relations  of  father's — I  don't  include  Mr. 
Tad  in  that  expression,  of  course;  and  now  I  am  acquainted 
with  them  I  would  refuse  it  a  thousand  times.  If  I  were 
starving,  I  wouldn't  put  myself  under  the  smallest  obligation 
to  the,  Mortimores. 

Phyllis. 
[ Unsteadily.}    Obligation — to — the — Mortimores — obliga- 
tion  !      [As   if  about  to   make   some   communication   to 

Helen,  supporting  herself  by  leaning  upon  the  table  on  the 
right,  her  body  bent  forward — almost  inaudibly.]      Helen — 

Helen 

Helen. 

What ? 

[There  is  a  short  silence,  and  then  Phyllis  drops  back 
upon  the  settee  by  the  piano. 

Phyllis. 
[Rocking  herself  to  and  fro.]     Oh — oh,  dear — oh ! 

Helen. 

[Coming  to  her  and  standing  over  her.]  You're  quite 
ill,  Phyllis;  your  bad  nights  are  taking  it  out  of  you  dread- 
fully.   You  ought  to  have  the  advice  of  a  doctor. 

Phyllis. 
[Weakly.]     No — don't  send  for  the  doctor 


Helen. 

Go  up  to  your  room,  then,  and  keep  quiet  till  Mr.  Tad 
calls  you.  [Glancing  at  the  clock.]  You've  a  quarter  of  an 
hour 


124  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  ii 

Phyllis. 
[Clutching  Helen's  skirt.]      Helen — you're  fond  of  me 
and  Tad — you  said  yesterday  how  attached  you'd  grown  to 

us 

Helen. 

[Soothingly.]     I  am — I  am — very  fond  of  you. 

Phyllis. 

And  the  children ? 

Helen. 
Yes,  yes. 

Phyllis. 
My  poor  children! 

Helen. 

Hush!    Why  poor  children?    Pull  yourself  together.    Go 
up  to  your  room. 

Phyllis. 
[Taking  Helen's  hand  and  caressing  it.]     Helen — if  you 
won't  accept  an  allowance  from  the  entire  family,  accept  it 
from  Tad  and  me. 

Helen. 
No,  no,  no. 

Phyllis. 
Four — three  hundred  a  year. 


Helen. 

Phyllis. 

Helen. 


No. 

Two  hundred. 

No. 

Phyllis. 

We   could   spare  it.     We  shouldn't  miss  it;  we  should 
never  miss  it. 


Act  n]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  125 

Helen. 
Not  a  penny. 

Phyllis. 

[Rising  and  gripping  Helen's  shoulders.]  You  shall — ■ 
you  shall  accept  it,  Helen. 

Helen. 
Phyllis!      [Releasing  herself  and  drawing  back.]      Phyllis, 
you're  very  odd  to-day.     You've  got  this  allowance  idea  on 
the  brain.    Look  here;  don't  let's  mention  the  subject  again, 
or  I — I  shall  be  offended. 

Phyllis. 
[Dully,  hanging  her  head.]     All  right.    Very  well. 

Helen. 

Forgive  me. .  It  happens  to  be  just  the  one  point  I'm 
sensitive  upon.  [Listening,  then  going  to  the  open  window.] 
Here  are  the  children.  Do  go  up-stairs.  [Calling  into  the 
garden.]  Hallo!  [Phyllis  leaves  the  room  as  Cyril  and 
Joyce  appear  outside  the  ivindow.  The  boy  is  carrying  a 
few  freshly-cut  roses.]  Now,  then,  children!  Isn't  it  time 
we  routed  Mr.  Trist  out  of  his  study? 

Cyril. 

[Entering  and  going  towards  the  door.]  I'll  stir  the  old 
chap  up.  [Remembering  the  nosegay.]  Oh [Present- 
ing it  to  Helen,  who  comes  forward  with  Joyce.]     Allow 

me 

Helen. 

For  me?  How  sweet  of  you!  [Placing  the  flowers 
against  her  belt  and  then  at  her  breast.]  Where  shall  I 
wear  them — here,  or  here? 

Cyril. 

Anywhere  you  like.  [Awkwardly.]  We  sha'n't  see  any- 
thing nicer  at  the  flower-show,  I'm  certain. 


126  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  ii 

Helen. 
No;  they're  beautiful. 

Cyril. 
[His  eyes  on  the  carpet.]     I  don't  mean  the  flowers — 

Helen. 

[Inclining  her  head.]  Thank  you.  [To  Cyril,  who 
again  makes  for  the  door.]  Don't  disturb  mother.  [Mov- 
ing away  to  the  fireplace  where,  at  the  mirror  over  the 
mantel-shelf,  she  fixes  the  roses  in  her  belt.]  She  has  to  go 
to  Claybrook  Road  with  your  father  in  a  little  while  and  I 
want  her  to  rest. 

Cyril. 

[Pausing.]  She  is  seedy,  isn't  she?  [Puckering  his 
brows.]     Going  to  Uncle  Jim's,  are  they? 

Helen. 
Yes. 

Cyril. 

That's  to  do  with  our  money,  I  expect. 

Helen. 

[Busy  at  the  mirror.]     With  your  money? 

Cyril. 
Father's  come  into  a  heap  of  money,  you  know. 

Joyce. 
[Reproachfully.]     Cyril ! 

Cyril. 
[Not    heeding    her.]      So    have    Uncle   Jim    and    Uncle 
Stephen  and  Aunt  Rose. 

Helen. 

I'm  delighted. 


act  ii]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  127 

Cyril. 

[  To  Joyce,  who  is  signing  to  him  to  desist.]  Oh,  what's 
the  use  of  our  keeping  it  dark  any  longer? 

Joyce. 
We  promised  mother 

Cyril. 

Ages  ago.  But  you  heard  what  father  said  to  Uncle 
Stephtn — it's  all  over  the  town.  Young  Pither  says  there's 
something  about  it  in  the  paper. 

Helen. 
The  paper? 

Cyril. 

The  Courier — that  fellow  Hammond's  paper.  Hammond 
was  beastly  sarcastic  about  it  last  week,  Pither  says.  [Going 
to  the  door.]  I  don't  read  the  Courier  myself.  [At  the 
door  he  beckons  to  Joyce.  She  joins  him  and  his  voice  drops 
to  a  whisper.]  Besides — [glancing  significantly  at  Helen, 
whose  back  is  turned  to  them]  it'll  make  it  easier  for  us. 
[Nudging  her.]  Now's  your  chance;  do  it  now.  [Aloud.] 
Give  me  five  minutes,  you  two.  I  can't  be  seen  at  the  flower- 
show  in  these  togs. 

[He  withdraws.     Having  assured  herself  that  the  door 
is  closed,  Joyce  advances  to  Helen. 

Joyce. 
Helen 

Helen. 
Hallo! 

Joyce. 
[Gravely.]     Have  you  a  minute  to  spare? 

Helen. 

[Coming  to  the  round  table.]     Yes,  dear. 


128  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  ii 

Joyce. 

Helen,  it's  quite  true  we've  come  into  a  great  deal  of 
money.  Uncle  Edward,  who  lived  at  Linchpool — oh,  you 
knew  him,  didn't  you? — he  was  a  friend  of  yours 

Helen. 
[Nodding.]     He  was  a  friend  of  mine. 

Joyce. 
Uncle  Edward  has  left  his  fortune  to  the  family — [break- 
ln9  °ff]  you've  been  told  already! 

Helen. 

Well — yes. 

Joyce. 

We  haven't  received  our  share  yet;  but  we  shall,  as  soon 
as  it's  all  divided  up.  [Timidly.]  Helen — [Helen  seats 
herself  upon  the  ottoman  in  an  attitude  of  attention]  I 
needn't  tell  you  this  will  very  much  improve  father  and 
mother's  position. 

Helen. 
Naturally. 

Joyce. 
And  mine  and  Cyril's,  too.    I'm  to  finish  abroad,  I  believe. 

Helen. 
Lucky  brat. 

Joyce. 

But  it's  Cyril  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about — my  brother 
Cyril 

Helen. 
Cyril? 

Joyce. 

Cyril  is  to  be  entered  for  one  of  the  principal  public 
schools. 


act  ii]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  129 

Helen. 
Is  he? 

Joyce. 

One  of  those  schools  which  stamp  a  boy  a  gentleman  for 
the  rest  of  his  life. 

Helen. 

He  is  a  gentleman,  as  it  is.     I've  a  high  opinion  of  Cyril. 

Joyce. 
OH,  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,  because — because 

Helen. 

Because  what?     [Joyce  turns  away  in  silence  to  the  settee 
by  the  piano.]     What  are  you  driving  at,  Joicey? 

Joyce. 
[Lounging  on   the  settee  uneasily  and  inelegantly.]      Of 
course,  Cyril's  only  fourteen  at  present;  there's  no  denying 
that. 

Helen. 
suppose  there  isn't. 

Joyce. 

But  in  three  years'  time  he'll  be  seventeen,  and  in  another 
three  he'll  be  twenty. 

Helen. 
[Puzzled.]     Well? 

Joyce. 

And  at  twenty  you're  a  man,  aren't  you? 

Helen. 
A  young  man. 

Joyce. 
[Seating  herself,  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  examining  her 
fingers.]     And  even  then  he'd  be  content  to  wait. 

Helen. 

To  wait?    What  for? 


130  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  ii 

Joyce. 

[In  a  low  voice.]  Cyril  wishes  to  marry  you  some  day, 
Helen. 

Helen. 
[After  a  pause,  gently .]     Does  he? 

Joyce. 

He  consulted  me  about  it  soon  after  you  came  to  us,  and 
I  advised  him  to  be  quite  sure  of  himself  before  he  spoke 
to  you.    And  he  is,  quite  sure  of  himself. 

Helen. 
And  he's  asked  you  to  speak  for  him  ? 

Joyce. 

He  prefers  my  doing  it.  [Looking,  under  her  lashes,  at 
Helen.]    Are  you  furious? 

Helen. 

Not  a  scrap. 

Joyce. 

[Transferring  herself  from  the  settee  to  the  floor  at  Hel- 
en's feet — embracing  her.]  Oh,  that's  lovely  of  you!  I 
was  afraid  you  might  be. 

Helen. 

Furious? 

Joyce. 

[Gazing  at  her  admiringly.]  At  our  aiming  so  high.  1 
was  afraid  you  might  consider  that  marrying  Cyril  would 
be  marrying  beneath  you. 

Helen. 

[Tenderly.]  The  girl  who  marries  Cyril  will  have  to  be 
a  far  grander  person  than  I  am,  Joyce,  to  be  marrying  be- 
neath her. 


act  ii]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  131 

Joyce. 

Oh,  Cyril's  all  right  in  himself,  and  so  is  father.  Father's 
very  retiring,  but  he's  as  clever  a  musician  as  any  in  the  mid- 
lands. And  mother  is  all  right  in  herself.  [Backing  away 
from  Helen.]  It's  not  mother's  fault;  it's  her  mis- 
fortune  


Helen. 


Her  misfortune- 


Joyce. 

{Bitterly. ,]  Oh,  I'll  be  bound  they  mentioned  it  at  "Ivan- 
hoe"  or  at  the  Crescent. 

Helen. 
Mentioned ? 

Joyce. 
[Between  her  teeth.]     The  shop — grandfather's  shop 

Helen. 
Ah,  yes. 

Joyce. 

[Clenching  her  hands.]  Ah!     [Squatting  upon  her  heels, 

her  shoulders  hunched.]  Grandfather  was  a  grocer,  Helen 

— a  grocer.     Oh,  mother  has  suffered  terribly  through  it — > 
agonies. 

Helen. 

Poor  mother! 

Joyce. 

We've  all  suffered.  Sometimes  it's  been  as  much  as  Cyril 
and  I  could  do  to  keep  our  heads  up;  [proudly,  with  flash- 
ing eyes]  but  we've  done  it.  The  Singlehampton  people  are 
beasts. 

Helen. 
Joyce ! 


i32  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  n 

Joyce. 

If  it's  the  last  word  I  ever  utter — beasts.  [Swallowing 
a  tear.]     And  only  half  of  it  was  grocery — only  half. 

Helen. 

Only  half ? 

Joyce. 

It  was  a  double  shop.  There  were  two  windows;  the 
other  half  was  bottles  of  wine.  They  forget  that;  they 
forget  that! 

Helen. 
A  shame. 

Joyce. 

[Embracing  Helen  again.]  What  shall  I  say  to  him, 
then? 

Helen. 
Say  to  him? 

Joyce. 

Cyril — what  answer  shall  I  give  him? 

Helen. 

Oh,   tell    Cyril   that   I   am   highly   complimented   by  his 

offer 

Joyce. 

[Eagerly.]      Complimented — yes ? 

Helen. 

And  that,  if  he's  of  the  same  mind  when  he's  a  man,  and 
I  am  still  single,  he  may  propose  to  me  again. 

Joyce. 
[In  alarm.]      If  you're — still  single ? 

Helen. 

Yes — [shaking  her  head]   and  if  he's  of  the  same  mind. 
[There    is    a   sharp,    prolonged   rapping    on    the    door. 
Joyce  and  Helen  rise. 


act  ii]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  133 

Joyce. 

[Going  to  the  door.]      It's  that  frightful  tease. 

[She  opens  the  door  and  Trist  enters,  carrying  his  hat, 
gloves,  and  walking-stick. 

Trist. 

Ladies,  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  several  choice  speci- 
mens of  the  Dianthus  Caryophyllus  refuse  to  raise  their  heads 
until  you  grace  the  flower-show  with  your  presence. 

(Joyce  slaps  his  hand  playfully  and  disappears.  Helen 
takes  her  hat  from  the  round  table  and  standing  be- 
fore the  mirror  at  the  mantelpiece,  pins  it  on  her  head. 
Trist  watches  her. 

Helen. 

[After  a  silence,  her  back  to  Trist.]  The  glass  reflects 
more  than  one  face,  Mr.  Trist. 

Trist. 
[Moving.]     I  beg  your  pardon. 

Helen. 
You  were  thinking ? 

Trist. 
Philosophizing — observing  your  way  of  putting  on  your 
hat. 

Helen. 
I  put  it  on  carelessly? 

Trist. 
Quickly.     A  convincing  sign  of  youth.     After   you  are 
five-and-twenty  the  process  will  take  at  least  ten  minutes. 

Helen. 
And  at  thirty? 

Trist. 
Half  an  hour.    Add  another  half-hour  for  each  succeeding 
decade 


134  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  ii 

Helen. 

[Turning  to  him.]  I'm  afraid  you're  a  knowing,  worldly 
parson. 

Trist. 

[Laughing.]     No,  no;  a  tolerant,  human  parson. 

Helen. 

We  shall  see.  [Picking  up  her  gloves.]  If  ever  you  get  a 
living  in  London,  Mr.  Trist,  I  shall  make  a  point  of  sitting 
under  you. 

Trist. 
I  bind  you  to  that. 

Helen. 

[Pulling  on  a  glove.]  By-the-bye,  I  set  out  to  seek  my 
London  living  to-morrow. 

Trist. 
[With  a  change  of  manner.]     To-morrow? 

Helen. 
To-morrow. 

Trist. 
[Blankly.]     I — I'm  sorry. 

Helen. 
Very  polite  of  you.    I'm  glad. 

Trist. 
Glad? 

Helen. 

It  sounds  rather  unkind,  doesn't  it?  Oh,  I'm  extremely 
i'ond  of  everybody  in  this  house — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tad  and 
the  children,  I  mean.  But  I'm  sure  it  isn't  good,  morally, 
for  me  to  be  here,  even  if  there  were  no  other  reasons  for 
my  departure. 

Trist. 

Morally? 


act  ii]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  135 

Helen. 
Yes;   if   I   remained   here,   all   that's   bad   in   my   nature 
would  come  out  on  top.    Do  you  know  that  I've  the  makings 
in  me  of  a  most  accomplished  liar  and  hypocrite? 

Trist. 
I  shouldn't  have  suspected  it. 

Helen. 

I  Rave.  [Coming  nearer  to  him.]  What  do  you  think 
takes  place  this  afternoon? 

Trist. 
What? 

Helen. 

[With  gradually  increasing  excitement.]  There's  to  be 
a  meeting  of  the  Mortimore  family  at  James  Mortimore's 
house  at  four  o'clock.  He  and  his  brother  Stephen  have 
just  informed  me,  with  the  delicacy  which  is  characteristic 
of  them,  that  they  are  going  to  arrange  with  the  lawyers  to 
administer  my  father's  estate  without  any  more  delay.  And 
I  was  double-faced  enough  to  receive  the  news  smilingly  and 
agreeably,  and  all  the  time  I  could  have  struck  them — I 
could  have  seen  them  drop  dead  in  this  room  without  a  pang 
of  regret 

Trist. 
No,  no 

Helen. 
I   could.      [Walking  away  and  pacing  the  room   on   the 
left.]     Oh,  it  isn't  father's  money  I  covet.     I  said  so  to  the 
family  in   Linchpool   and   I   say  it  again.     But   I   deceived 
myself. 

Trist. 
Deceived  yourself? 


136  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  ii 

Helen. 
Deceived  myself.  I  can't  bear  that  father  should  have 
forgotten  me.  I  can't  bear  it;  I  can't  resign  myself  to  it; 
I  shall  never  resign  myself  to  it.  I  thought  I  should  be  able 
to,  but  I  was  mistaken.  I  told  Mr.  Thaddeus  that  I've  been 
suffering  no  suspense  this  last  month.  It's  a  falsehood;  I've 
been  suffering  intense  suspense.  I've  been  watching  the  posts, 
for  letters  from  Elkin;  I've  been  praying,  daily,  hourly,  that 
something — anything — might  be  found  to  prove  that  father 
had  remembered  me.  And  I  loathe  these  people,  who  step 
over  me  and  stand  between  me  and  the  being  I  loved  best 
on  earth ;  I  loathe  them.  I  detest  the  whole  posse  of  them, 
except  the  Thaddeuses;  and  I  wish  this  money  may  bring 
them,  and  those  belonging  to  them,  every  ill  that's  conceiv- 
able. [Confronting  Trist,  her  bosom  heaving. ]  Don't  you 
lecture  me. 

Trist. 

[Good-humor  edly.~\      I   haven't   the   faintest   intention  of 
doing  so. 

Helen. 
Ha!     [At  the  piano,  mimicking  James.]     Here's  Gordon 

Street 

Trist. 
Eh? 

Helen. 
You    come    along    here,    to    Albert    Terrace — taking    in 
Clark's  piano  factory 

Trist. 
Who  does? 

Helen. 
[Fiercely.]     Here — here's  the  pub  at  the  corner! 

Trist. 
[Bewildered. .]     I — I  don't 


act  ii]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  137 

Helen. 
[Speaking  to   him  across  the  piano.]      James  Mortimore 
is  buying  land  and  building  a  new  street  in  the  town. 

Trist. 
Really? 

Helen. 

And  Stephen  is  putting  twelve  thousand  pounds  into  his 
old-fashioned  paper,  to  freshen  it  up;  and  the  Pontings  are 
moving  into  a  big  house  in  London — near  Berkeley  Square, 
as  James  calls  it;  and  they  must  needs  discuss  their  affairs 
in  my  hearing,  brutes  that  they  are!  [Coming  to  the  chair 
on  the  left  of  the  table  at  the  end  of  the  piano. ,]  Oh,  thank 
God,  I'm  leaving  the  town  to-morrow!  It  was  only  a  sort 
of  curiosity  that  brought  me  here.  [Sitting  and  producing 
her  handkerchief.]  Thank  God,  I'm  leaving  to-morrow! 
[He  walks  to  the  window  on  the  right  to  allow  her  to 
recover  herself,  and  then  returns  to  her. 

Trist. 
My  dear  child,  may  I  speak  quite  plainly  to  you? 

Helen. 
[Wiping  her  eyes.]     If  you  don't  lecture  me. 

Trist. 

I  won't  lecture  you.     I  merely  venture  to  suggest  that 
you  are  a  trifle  illogical. 

Helen. 
I  dare  say. 

Trist. 
After  all,   recollect,   our   friends  James  and   Stephen   are 
not  to  be  blamed  for  the  position  they  find  themselves  in. 

Helen. 
Their  manners  are  insufferable. 


138  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  ii 

Trist. 
Hardly  insufferable.     Nothing  is  insufferable. 

Helen. 

There  you  go! 

Trist. 

Their  faults  of  manner  and  breeding  are  precisely  the 
faults  a  reasonable,  dispassionate  person  would  have  no  dif- 
ficulty in  excusing.  And  I  shall  be  much  astonished,  when 
the  bitterness  of  your  mortification  has  worn  off 

Helen. 

You  are  lecturing! 

Trist. 
I'm  not;  I  give  you  my  word  I'm  not. 

Helen. 

It  sounds  uncommonly  like  it.  What  did  I  tell  you  the 
other  day — that  you  were  different  from  the  clergymen  I'd 
met  hitherto,  because  you  were ? 

Trist. 
Jolly. 

Helen. 

[With  a  shrug.]  Jolly!  [Wearily.]  Oh,  please  go  and 
hurry  the  children  up,  and  let's  be  off  to  the  flowers. 

Trist. 

[Not  stirring.]     My  dear  Miss  Thornhill 


Helen. 

[Impatiently.]     I'll  fetch  them- 


act  n]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  139 

Trist. 

Don't.  [Deliberately.]  My  dear  Miss  Thornhill,  to 
show  you  how  little  I  regard  myself  as  worthy  of  the  priv- 
ilege of  lecturing  you;  [smiling]  to  show  you  how  the  seeds 
of  selfishness  may  germinate  and  flourish  even  in  the  breast 
of  a  cleric — may  I  make  a  confession  to  you? 

Helen. 
Confession ? 

Trist. 

I — I  want  to  confess  to  you  that  the  circumstance  of  your 
having  been  left  as  you  are — cast  adrift  on  the  world,  un- 
protected, without  means  apart  from  your  own  talent  and 
exertions — is  one  that  fills  me  with — hope. 

Helen. 

Hope? 

Trist. 

Fills  me  with  hope,  though  it  may  scarcely  justify  my 
presumption.  [Sitting  opposite  to  her.]  You  were  assuming 
a  minute  ago,  in  joke  perhaps,  the  possibility  of  my  obtaining 
a  living  some  day. 

Helen. 

[Graciously,  but  with  growing  uneasiness.]  Not  alto- 
gether in  joke. 

Trist. 

Anyhow,  there  is  a  decided  possibility  of  a  living  coming 
my  way — and  practically  in  London,  as  it  chances. 

Helen. 
I — I'm  pleased. 


140  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  ii 

Trist. 

Yes,  in  the  natural  order  of  events  a  living  will  be  vacant 
within  the  next  few  years  which  is  in  the  gift  of  the  father 
of  an  old  college  chum  of  mine.  It's  a  suburban  parish — 
close  to  Twickenham — and  I'm  promised  it. 


Helen. 
That  would  be — nice  for  you. 

Trist. 
[Gazing  at  her  fixedly.]     Jolly. 

Helen. 
[Her  eyes  drooping.]     Very — jolly. 

Trist. 

I  should  still  be  a  poor  man — that  I  shall  always  be;  but 
poverty  is  relative.  It  would  be  riches  compared  with  my 
curacy  here.  [After  a  pause.]  The  vicarage  has  a  garden 
with  some  grand  old  trees. 

Helen. 
Many  of  the  old  gardens — in  the  suburbs — are  charming. 

Trist. 

I — I  could  let  the  vicarage  during  the  summer,  to  increase 
my  income. 

Helen. 
May  a  vicar — let — his  vicarage? 


act  ii]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  141 

Trist. 

It's  done.  Some  Bishops  object  to  it;  [innocently]  but  you 
can  dodge  the  old  boy. 

Helen. 

Dodge  the — old  boy! 

Trist. 

There  are  all  sorts  of  legal  fictions  to  help  you.  I  know 
of  a  Bishop's  son-in-law  who  let  his  vicarage  for  a  term  under 
the  pretence  of  letting  only  the  furniture. 

Helen. 

Wicked. 

Trist. 

[Leaning  forward.]  But  I  shouldn't  dream  of  letting  my 
vicarage  if  my  income — proved  sufficient 

Helen. 

It  would  be  wealth — you  say — in  comparison 

Trist. 
Yes,  but  I — I  might — marry. 

Helen. 

[Hastily.]     Oh — oh,  of  course. 

[The  door  opens  and  Joyce  and  Cyril  enter,  dressed 
for  going  out.  Cyril  is  in  his  best  suit,  is  gloved, 
and  swings  a  cane  which  is  too  long  for  him.  At  the 
same  moment  Thaddeus  lets  himself  into  the  garden 
at  the  gate.  He  is  accompanied  by  Denyer,  an 
ordinary-looking  person  ivith  whiskers  and  moustache. 
Helen  and  Trist  rise,  and  she  goes  to  the  mirror  in 
some  confusion  and  gives  a  last  touch  to  her  hat. 


1 42  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  ii 

Joyce. 
Have  we  kept  you  waiting? 

Cyril. 
Sorry.    Couldn't  get  my  tie  to  go  right. 

Thaddeus. 

[In  the  garden.]     Come  in,  Denyer.     [At  the  window,  to 
those  in  the  room.]     What,  haven't  you  folks  gone  yet? 

Trist. 

[With  the  children,  following  Helen  into  the  garden.] 
Just  off. 

Thaddeus. 

[To  Helen,  as  she  passes  him.]     Hope  you'll  enjoy  your- 
self. 

Trist. 

[To  Denyer.]     Ah,  Mr.  Denyer,  how  are  you? 

Denyer. 
How  are  you,  Mr.  Trist? 

Joyce  and  Cyril. 
[To  Thaddeus.]     Good-bye,  father. 

Thaddeus. 

[Kissing  them.]     Good-bye,  my  dears. 

[Trist  opens  the  gate  and  Helen  and  the  children  pass 
out  into  the  lane.  Trist  follows  them,  closing  the 
gate.  Thaddeus  and  Denyer  enter  the  room. 
Denyer  is  carrying  a  newspaper. 


act  ii]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  143 

Cyril. 
[Out  of  sight,  shrilly.]     Which  way? 

Trist. 
Through  Parker  Street. 

Joyce. 
Who  walks  with  who? 

Helen. 
I  walk  with  Cyril. 

[The  sound  of  the  chatter  dies  in  the  distance. 

Denyer. 

[To  Thaddeus.]  Then  I  can  put  up  the  bill  at  once, 
Mr.   Mortimore? 

Thaddeus. 

[Laying  his  hat  upon  the  table  on  the  left.]  Do,  Denyer. 
To-morrow — to-day 

Denyer. 

I'll  send  a  man  round  in  the  morning.  [Producing  a  note- 
book and  writing  in  it.]  Let's  see — your  lease  is  seven, 
fourteen,  twenty-one? 

Thaddeus. 
That's  it. 

Denyer. 

How  much  of  the  first  seven  is  there  to  run — I  ought 
to  remember ? 


144  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  ii 

Thaddeus. 
Two  years  and  a  half  from  Michaelmas. 

Denyer. 
Rent? 

Thaddeus. 
Forty. 

[The  door  opens  a  little  way  and  Phyllis  peeps  in. 
Her  features  are  drawn,  her  lips  white  and  set. 

Denyer. 

Fixtures  at  a  valuation,  I  s'pose? 

Thaddeus. 
Ha,  ha!     The  costly  fixtures  at  a  valuation. 

Denyer. 

You  may  as  well  sell   'em,   if  they  only  fetch  tuppence. 
[Seeing  Phyllis,  who  has  entered  softly.]     Good-afternoon, 


ma'am 


Phyllis. 

[In  a  low  voice.]     Good-afternoon. 

Thaddeus. 

[Turning  to  her.]  Phyl,  dear!  I  met  Mr.  Denyer  in 
the  lane.  [Gleefully.]  The  bill  goes  up  to-morrow — 
"house  to  let" — to-morrow  morning — [to  Denyer]  first 
thing 

[Phyllis  moves  to  the  bay-window  without  speaking. 


act  n]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  145 

Denyer. 

First  thing.  [Putting  his  pocketbook  azvay.~\  Excuse  mc 
— you're  on  the  lookout  for  a  new  residence? 

Thaddeus. 
Oh — er — one  must  live  somewhere,  Denyer. 

Denyer. 

And  a  much  superior  house  to  this,  Mr.  Mortimore,  I  lay 
a  guinea. 

Thaddeus. 

[Walking  about  zvith  his  hands  in  his  pockets.]  The 
children  are  springing  up — getting  to  be  tremendous  people. 

Denyer. 
[Genially.]     Oh,  come,  sir!     We  know. 

Thaddeus. 
[Pausing  in  his  walk.]     Eh? 

Denyer. 

Everybody  in  the  town  knows  of  your  luck,  and  the 
family's.  [Picking  up  his  hat  and  newspaper,  which  he  has 
laid  upon  the  ottoman.]  Here's  another  allusion  to  it  in  this 
week's  Courier. 

Thaddeus. 
The  Courier? 

Denyer. 

[Handing  him  the  paper.]  Just  out.  You  keep  it;  I've 
got  another  at  'ome.  [Thaddeus  is  searching  the  paper.] 
Middle  page — "Town  Topics." 


146  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  ii 

Thaddeus. 
Thanks. 

Denyer. 

Mr.  Hammond — he  will  poke  his  fun.  [Going  to  the 
window.}     P'r'aps  you'll  give  us  a  call,  sir? 

Thaddeus. 
\Following  him  absently,  reading.]     Yes,  I'll  call  in. 

Denyer. 

[To  Phyllis,  who  is  sitting  in  the  chair  by  the  bay- 
window.]  Good-day,  ma'am.  [In  the  garden,  to  Thad- 
deus, persuasively.]  Now,  you  won't  forget  Gibson  and 
Denyer,  Mr.  Mortimore? 

Thaddeus. 
[At  the  zuindow.]     I  won't;  I  won't. 

Denyer. 

The  old  firm.  [Opening  the  gate.]  What  we  haven't 
got  on  our  books  isn't  worth  considering,  you  take  it  from 
me. 

[He   disappears,   closing   the   gate.     Thaddeus   comes 
back  into  the  room. 

Thaddeus. 

Upon  my  soul,  this  is  too  bad  of  Hammond.  This'll  annoy 
Jim  and  Stephen  frightfully — drive  'em  mad.  [Flinging  the 
paper  on  to  the  settee  by  the  piano.]  Oh,  well !  [Put- 
ting his  necktie  in  order  at  the  mirror.]  By  Jove,  we've  done 
it  at  last,  old  lady!     "House  to  let,"  hey?     I  believe  I'm 


act  ii]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  147 

keener  about  it  than  you  are,  now  it's  come  to  it.  What  a 
sensation  it'll  cause  at  "Ivanhoe,"  and  at  the  Crescent!  I 
tell  you  what,  you  and  I  must  have  a  solemn  talk  to-night 
— a  parliament — when  the  children  have  gone  to  bed;  a 
regular,  serious  talk.  [Turning.]  You  know,  I'm  still  for 
Cheltenham.  Cheltenham  seems  to  me  to  offer  so  many 
advantages.  [Phyllis  rises  slowly.]  There's  the  town  it- 
self— bright  and  healthy;  then  the  College,  for  Cyril.     As 

for  its  musical  tastes [Breaking  off  and  looking  at  the 

clock.]  I  say,  do  get  your  things  on,  Phyl.  [Comparing 
his  watch  with  the  clock  and  then  timing  and  winding  it.] 
We  shall  catch  it  if  we're  not  punctual. 

Phyllis. 
I — I'm  not  going,  Tad. 

Thaddeus. 
Not  going,  dear? 

Phyllis. 

No — I [He  advances  to  the  right  of  the  piano  solic- 
itously.]     I  can't  go. 

Thaddeus. 
Aren't  you  up  to  it? 

[She   moves   to   the   open   window   and   looks   into    the 
garden. 

Phyllis. 

They  won't — be  back — for  a  long  while? 

Thaddeus. 

The  children,  and  Trist  and   Helen?     Not  for  an  hour 
or  two. 


i48  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  ii 

Phyllis. 
[Turning.]     Tad — that  girl — that  girl 


Thaddeus. 
Helen? 

Phyllis. 

[Coming  forivard  a  little.]      We're  robbing  her;  we're 
robbing  her.     [Shaking.]     We're  all  robbing  her. 

Thaddeus. 

[At  her  side.]     You've  got  another  bad  attack  of  nerves 
this  afternoon — an  extra  bad  one 

Phyllis. 

[Suddenly,    grasping    his    coat.]      Tad — I — I've    broken 
down 

Thaddeus. 
Broken  down? 

Phyllis. 
I've  broken  down  under  it.     I — I  can't  endure  it. 


Thaddeus. 
[Soothingly.]     What — what ? 

Phyllis. 
Your  brother — Edward — your  brother — Edward- 

Thaddeus. 


Yes? 


act  ii]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  149 

Phyllis. 
Everything — everything — belongs  to  her — Helen 

Thaddeus. 
My  dear,  the  family  were  prepared  to  offer  Helen 

Phyllis. 

No,   no!     He  left  every  penny  to  her — left  it   to   her. 
[Staring  into  his  face.]     There  was  a  will. 

Thaddeus. 
A  will? 

Phyllis. 
I  saw  it. 

Thaddeus. 
You  saw  it? 

Phyllis. 
I  read  it — I  had  it  in  my  hand 


Thaddeus. 
[Incredulously.]     You  did! 

Phyllis. 
Yes,  I — I  did  away  with  it 

Thaddeus. 
Did  away  with  it? 

Phyllis. 

Destroyed  it. 


150  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  ii 

Thaddeus. 

A  will — Ned's  will !     [She  turns  from  him  and  sinks 

helplessly  on  to  the  settee  by  the  fireplace.  He  stands  looking 
down  upon  her  in  a  half-frightened,  half-puzzled  way;  then 
his  face  clears  and  he  looks  at  the  clock  again.  Calmly.] 
Phyl,  I  wish  you'd  let  me  have  Chapman  in. 


Phyllis. 
[In  a  faint  voice.]     No — no 


Thaddeus. 

My  dear,  we  can  afford  a  doctor  now,  if  we  require  one. 
That  bromide  stuff  he  prescribed  for  you  once — that  did  you 
no  end  of  good.     [Going  towards  the  door.]     I'll  send  Kate. 

Phyllis. 
[Raising  herself.]    Tad 

Thaddeus. 
[Reassuringly.]     I'll  stay  with  you  till  he  comes. 

Phyllis. 

Tad — [getting  to  her  feet]  you — you  think  I'm  not  right 
in  my  head.  Tad,  I — I  know  what  I'm  saying.  I'm  telling 
the  truth.     I'm  telling  you  the  truth. 

Thaddeus. 
A  will ? 

Phyllis. 
[At  the  round  table.]     Yes — yes 


act  11]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  151 

Thaddeus. 

No,  no,  you're  talking  nonsense.  [He  goes  to  the  door 
and  there  pauses,  his  hand  on  the  door-knob.]  When — 
when ? 

Phyllis. 

When ? 

Thaddeus. 
When  did  you  see  it? 

Phyllis. 
On  the — on  the  Wednesday  night. 

Thaddeus. 
The  Wednesday  night? 

Phyllis. 

You  remember — the  night  there  was  no  night  nurse ? 

Thaddeus. 

I  remember,  of  course. 

Phyllis. 

Ann  and  Louisa  had  gone  to  the  hotel  to  lie  down,  and 
— and  I  was  alone  with  him. 

Thaddeus. 
I  remember  it  all  perfectly. 

Phyllis. 

\Moving  towards  the  ottoman,  supporting  herself  by  the 
table.]     I  was  with  him  from  eight  o'clock  till  nearly  eleven. 


152  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  ii 

Thaddeus. 

Till  the  others  came  back.     That  was  the  night  he — the 
night  he  sank. 

Phyllis. 

Yes;  it  was  just  before  then  that  he — that  he 

Thaddeus. 
[Leaving  the  door.]     Just  before  then ? 

Phyllis. 

It  was  just  before  the  change  set  in  that  he — that  he  sent 
me  down-stairs. 

Thaddeus. 
Down-stairs? 

Phyllis. 
To  the  library. 

Thaddeus. 
The  library? 

Phyllis. 
With  the  keys. 

Thaddeus. 
Keys? 

Phyllis. 
His  bunch  of  keys. 

Thaddeus. 

Sent  you  down-stairs — to  the  library — with  his  keys? 

Phyllis. 
Yes. 


Act  ii]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  153 

Thaddeus. 
What  for? 

Phyllis. 
To  fetch  something. 

Thaddeus. 
Fetch  something? 

Phyllis. 

From  the  safe. 

Thaddeus. 
The  safe? 

Phyllis. 

The  safe  in  the  library — [sitting  on  the  ottoman]  the  safe 
in  the  bookcase  in  the  library. 

Thaddeus. 

[Coming  to  her.]  What — what  did  he  send  you  to  fetch, 
dear? 

Phyllis. 
Some — some  jewelry. 

Thaddeus. 
Jewelry? 

Phyllis. 

Some  pieces  of  jewelry.  He  had  some  pieces  of  jewelry 
in  his  safe  in  the  library,  that  he'd  picked  up,  he  said,  at  odd 
times,  and  he  wanted  to  make  me  a  present  of  one  of  them — 

Thaddeus.. 
Make  you  a  present ? 


154  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  ii 

Phyllis. 

As  a  keepsake.  [Her  elbozus  on  her  knees,  digging  her 
fingers  into  her  hair.]  It  was  about  half-past  nine.  I  was 
sitting  beside  his  bed,  thinking  he  was  asleep,  and  I  found 
him  looking  at  me.  He  recollected  seeing  me  when  I  was  a 
child,  he  said,  skating  on  the  ponds  at  Claybrook ;  and  he  said 
he  was  sure  I — I  was  a  good  wife  to  you — and  a  good  mother 
to  my  children.  And  then  he  spoke  of  the  jewelry — and 
opened  the  drawer  of  the  table  by  the  bed — and  took  out  his 
keys — and  explained  to  me  how  to  open  the  safe. 

Thaddeus. 

[His    manner    gradually    changing    as    he    listens    to    her 
recital.]     You — you  went  down ? 


Phyllis. 

Thaddeus. 
_? 

Phyllis. 

And  unlocked  the  safe.     And  in  the  lower  drawer  I — I 
came  across  it. 


Yes. 

And — and- 


Thaddeus. 


Came  across- 


Phyllis. 

He  told  me  I  should  find  four  small  boxes — and  I  could 
find  only  three — and  that  made  me  look  into  the  drawer — 
and — and  under  a  lot  of  other  papers — I — I  saw  it. 

Thaddeus. 
It? 


act  n]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  155 

Phyllis. 

A  big  envelope,  with  "My  Will"  written  upon  it. 

[There  is  a  short  silence;  then  he  seats  himself  upon  the 
settee  by  the  piano. 


Thaddeus. 
[In  a  whisper.]     Well? 

Phyllis. 

[Raising  her  head.]  I  put  it  back  into  the  drawer,  and 
locked  the  safe,  and  went  up-stairs  with  the  jewelry.  Out- 
side the  bedroom  door  I  found  Heath.  I'd  given  him  per- 
mission to  run  out  for  an  hour,  to  get  some  air,  with  Pearce 
and  Sadler,  the  housemaids.  He  asked  me  if  they  could  do 
anything  for  me  before  they  started.  I  told  him  no,  and 
that  Mr.  Mortimore  seemed  brighter  and  stronger.  I  heard 
him  going  down  the  servant's  staircase ;  and  then  I  went  into 
the  room — up  to  the  bed — and — and  he  was  altered. 


Thaddeus. 

[Moistening  his  lips  zvith  his  tongue.]     Ned- 


Phyllis. 

His  cheeks  were  more  shrunken,  and  his  jaw  had  dropped 
slightly,  and  his  lips  were  quite  blue;  and  his  breathing  was 
short  and  quick.  I  measured  the  medicine  which  he  was  to 
have  if  there  was  any  sign  of  collapse,  and  lifted  him  up  and 
gave  it  to  him.  Then  I  rang  the  bell,  and  by  and  by  the 
woman  from  the  kitchen  answered  it.  He  was  easier  then 
— dozing,  but  I  told  her  to  put  on  her  hat  and  jacket  and 
go  for  Dr.  Oswald.  And  then  I  stood  watching  him,  and 
— and  the  idea — came  to  me. 


156  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  ii 

Thaddeus. 
The — the  idea? 

Phyllis. 

My  head  suddenly  became  very  clear.  Every  word  of  the 
argument  in  the  train  came  back  to  me 

Thaddeus. 
Argument? 

Phyllis. 

Between  James  and  the  others — in  the  train,  going  to 
Linchpool,  on  the  Tuesday 

Thaddeus. 
Oh — oh,  yes. 

Phyllis. 

If  Edward  died,  how  much  would  he  die  worth?  Who 
would  come  in  for  all  his  money?  Would  he  remember  the 
family,  to  the  extent  of  a  mourning  ring  or  so,  in  his  will? 
If  he  should  die  leaving  no  will !  Of  course  Ned  would 
leave  a  will,  but — where  did  a  man's  money  go  to  when  he 
didn't  leave  a  will  ? 

Thaddeus. 
[Under  his  breath.]     To  his — next-of-kin ! 


Phyllis. 

[Rising  painfully.]  After  a  time,  I — I  went  downstairs 
again.  At  first  I  persuaded  myself  that  I  only  wanted  to 
replace  the  jewelry — that  I  didn't  want  to  have  to  explain 
about  the  jewelry  to  Ann  and  Lou;  [moving  about  the  room 
on  the  left]  but  when  I  got  down-stairs  I  knew  what  I  was 
going  to  do.     And  I  did  it  as  if  it  was  the  most  ordinary 


act  ii]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  157 

thing  in  the  world.  I  put  back  the  little  boxes — and  took 
out  the  big  envelope — and  locked  up  the  safe  again,  and — 
read  the  will.  [Pausing  at  the  piano.]  Everything — every- 
thing— to  some  person — some  woman  living  in  Paris.  {Lean- 
ing upon  the  piano,  a  clenched  hand  against  her  brow.] 
"Everything  I  die  possessed  of  to  Helen  Thornhill,  now  or 
late  of "  such-and-such  an  address,  "spinster,  abso- 
lutely"; and  she  was  to  be  his  executrix — "sole  executrix." 
That  was  all,  except  that  he  begged  her  to  reward  his  old 
servants — his  old  servants  at  his  house  and  at  the  brewery. 
Just  a  few  lines — on  one  side  of  a  sheet  of  paper 

Thaddeus. 
Written — in  his  own — hand? 

Phyllis. 
I  think  so. 


Thaddeus. 
You — you've  seen  his  writing — since- 


Phyllis. 
[Leaving  the  piano.]     Yes — I'm  sure — in  his  own  hand. 

Thaddeus. 
[Heartily.]     That  clears  it  up,  then. 

Phyllis. 
Yes. 

Thaddeus. 
He'd  made  his  will — himself — himself 


i58  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  ii 

Phyllis. 

[Her  strength  failing  a  little.]  Three  years  ago.  I — 
noticed  the  date — [dropping  into  the  chair  on  the  extreme 

left]   it  was  three  years  ago 

[Again  there  is  a  silence;  then  he  rises  and  walks  about 
aimlessly. 

Thaddeus. 

[Trying  to  collect  his  thoughts.]  Yes — yes;  this  clears 
it  up.  This  clears  it  all  up.  There  was  a  will.  There  was 
a  will.  He  didn't  forget  his  child;  he  didn't  forget  her. 
What  fools — what  fools  we  were  to  suppose  he  could  have 
forgotten  his  daughter! 

Phyllis. 

[Writhing  in  her  chair.]  Oh,  I  didn't  know — I  didn't 
guess !     His  daughter!     [Moaning.]     Oh!  oh! 

Thaddeus. 

Don't;  don't,  old  lady.  [She  continues  her  moaning.] 
Oh,  don't,  don't!  Let's  think;  let's  think,  now;  let's  think. 
[He  seats  himself  opposite  to  her.]  Now,  let's  think.  Helen 
— this'll  put  Helen  in  a  different  position  entirely;  a  differ- 
ent position  entirely — won't  it?  I — I  wonder — I  wonder 
what's  the  proper  course  for  the  family  to  take.  [Stretching 
out  a  trembling  hand  to  her.]  You'll  have  to  write  down 
— to  write  down  carefully — very  carefully — [breaking  off, 
with  a  change  of  tone]  Phyl 

Phyllis. 
Oh!  oh! 

Thaddeus. 

Don't,  dear,  don't!  Phyllis,  perhaps  you — didn't — destroy 
the  will;  not — actually — destroy  it?  [Imploringly.]  You 
didn't  destroy  it,  dear! 


act  ii]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  159 

Phyllis. 
I  did— I  did 


Thaddeus. 

[Leaning  back  in  his  chair,  dazed.]  I — I'm  afraid — it — 
it's  rather — a  serious  matter — to — to  destroy 

Phyllis. 

[Starting  up.]  I  did  destroy  it;  I  did  destroy  it.  [Pac- 
ing the  room  on  the  right.]  I  kept  it — I'd  have  burnt  it 
then  and  there  if  there'd  been  a  fire — but  I  kept  it — I  grew 
terrified  at  what  I'd  done — oh,  I  kept  it  tijl  you  left  me  at 
Roper's  on  the  Thursday  morning;  and  then  I — I  went  on 
to  the  Ford  Street  bridge — and  tore  it  into  pieces — and  threw 
them  into  the  water.     [Wringing  her  hands.]     Oh!  oh! 

Thaddeus. 

[His  chin  on  his  breast.]     Well — well — we've  got  to  go 

through  with  it.     We've  got— to  go — through [Rising 

and  walking  about  unsteadily  on  the  left.]  Yes,  yes,  yes; 
what  a  difference  it'll  make  to  everybody — not  only  to 
Helen!  What  a  difference  it'll  make  at  "Ivanhoe,"  and  at 
the  Crescent — and  to  Rose ! 

Phyllis. 
They'll  curse  me!    They'll  curse  me  more  than  ever! 

Thaddeus. 
And  to — to  us! 

Phyllis. 
To  us — the  children ! 


160  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  h 

Thaddeus. 

[Shaking  a  finger  at  her  across  the  piano,  cunningly.] 
Ah — ah — ah,  but  when  the  affair's  really  settled,  we'll  still 
carry  out  our  intention.     We — we'll  still 

Phyllis. 
[Facing  him.]     Our  intention?     Our ? 

Thaddeus. 
Our  intention — of  leaving  the  town 

Phyllis. 

[Wildly.]      Leaving  the  town!     Oh,  my  God,  we  shall 
have  to  leave  the  town! 

Thaddeus. 
[Recoiling.]     Oh ! 

Phyllis. 
Leave  it  as  beggars  and  outcasts ! 

Thaddeus. 

[Qui'tly.]     Oh,  yes,  we  shall — have — to  leave  the  town 

— now 

[The    door    opens    and    a    little    maidservant    enters. 
Thaddeus  looks  at  her  with  dull  eyes. 

The  Servant. 
Please,  sir 

Thaddeus. 
Eh? 


act  ii]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  161 

The  Servant. 

Maud's  just  come  down  from  "Ivanhoe."     They're  wait- 
ing for  you. 

Thaddeus. 
W — waiting  ? 

The  Servant. 

That's   the   message,   sir.      Mr.   James  and   the   family's 
waiting  for  Mr.  Thaddeus. 

Thaddeus. 

Oh,  I {Taking  out  his  watch  and  fingering  it.]    Yes, 

of  course — [to  the  servant]  I — I'm  coming  up.  [The  serv- 
ant withdraws.  Thaddeus  picks  up  his  hat  from  the  table 
on  the  left  and  turns  to  Phyllis.]  Good-bye,  dear.  [Tak- 
ing her  in  his  arms,  and  kissing  her,  simply.]  I — I'll  go  up. 
[He  puts  his  hat  on,  finds  his  way  to  the  door  with  un- 
certain steps,  and  disappears. 


END  OF  THE  SECOND  ACT 


THE  THIRD  ACT 

The  scene  is  the  dining-room  in  James  MoRTlMORE's  house. 
In  the  wall  facing  the  spectator  there  is  an  arched  re- 
cess with  a  fireplace  at  the  back  of  it,  and  on  either  side 
of  the  fireplace,  within  the  recess,  there  is  a  chimney- 
seat.  On  the  right  of  the  recess  a  door  opens  into  the 
room  from  a  hall  or  passage. 

Standing  out  in  the  middle  of  the  room  is  a  large,  oblong 
dining-table,  uncovered.  On  the  table  are  a  couple  of 
inkstands,  some  pens,  paper,  and  blotting-paper.  Ten 
chairs  are  placed  at  regular  intervals  at  the  table — three 
at  each  side  and  two  at  the  ends.  Against  the  wall  on 
the  right,  near  the  door,  stands  a  heavy  side-board.  On 
it  are  several  pieces  of  ugly-looking,  showy  plate,  a 
carafe  of  water  and  a  tumbler,  and,  upon  a  tray,  a 
decanter  of  red  ivine  and  some  ivine- glasses.  Against 
the  same  zvall,  but  nearer  to  the  spectator,  there  is  a 
cabinet.  In  front  of  the  cabinet  there  is  a  round  table, 
covered  with  a  ivhite  cloth,  on  which  tea-cups  and 
saucers  are  laid  for  ten  persons.  Also  on  the  table  are 
a  tea-caddy  and  teapot,  a  plated  kettle-stand,  a  plum- 
cake,  and  other  accompaniments  of  afternoon  tea.  On 
each  side  of  the  tea-table  there  is  an  armchair  belonging 
to  the  same  set  of  chairs  that  surround  the  dining-table. 

Against  the  left-hand  wall  is  another  heavy  piece  of  furni- 
ture. Except  for  this,  and  the  sideboard  and  the  cabinet, 
the  walls,  beloiv  the  dado  rail,  are  bare. 

The  architecture,  decorations,  and  furniture  are  pseudo- 
artistic  and  vulgar.  The  ivhole  suggests  the  home  of  a 
common  person  of  moderate  means  who  has  built  himself 
a  "fine  house." 

162 


act  m]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  163 

James  and  Stephen  are  seated  at  the  farther  side  of  the 
dining-table  with  a  neivspaper  spread  out  before  them. 
Standing  by  them,  reading  the  paper  over  their  hus- 
bands' shoulders,  are  Ann  and  Louisa.  Rose  is  sitting, 
looking  bored,  at  the  right-hand  end  of  the  table,  and 
Ponting,  smoking  a  cigar,  is  pacing  the  room  on  the 
left.  Louisa  and  Rose,  the  latter  dressed  in  rich  half- 
mourning,  are  wearing  their  hats. 

James. 
[Scowling  at  the  paper.]     It's  infamous. 

Louisa. 
Abominable ! 

Ann. 

It  oughtn't  to  be  allowed,  James. 

Stephen. 
Ah,  now  James  is  stabbed  at  as  well  as  myself. 

James. 
The  man's  a  blackguard ;  that's  what  he  is. 

Louisa. 
His  wife's  a  most  unpleasant  woman 

Stephen. 

[Leaning   back  and  wiping   his  spectacles.]      Hitherto  / 
have  been  the  chief  object  of  Mr.  Hammond's  malice. 

Louisa. 

You'll  soon  have  your  revenge  now,   Stephen.      [To  the 
others.]     Stephen  will  soon  have  his  revenge  now. 


164  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  m 

James. 

By  George,  I've  half  a  mind  to  ask  Vallance  to  give  me 
his  opinion  on  this! 

Stephen. 
We  might  consult  Vallance,  certainly. 

Louisa. 
And  tell  him  what  Mrs.  Hammond  was. 


Ann. 
When  she  was  plain  Nelly  Robson. 

Stephen. 
Sssh,  sssh!    Do,  pray,  keep  the  wife  out  of  it. 

PONTING. 

[Looking  at  his  watch  as  he  walks  across  to  the  right.] 
I  say,  my  friends,  it's  four  o'clock,  you  know.  [The  Mor- 
timores  stiffen  themselves  and  regard  him  coldly.]  Where 
are  these  lawyer  chaps? 

James. 

[Folding  the  newspaper.]  They're  not  in  my  pocket, 
Colonel. 

Stephen. 

No,  we're  not  in  the  habit  of  carrying  them  about  with 
us. 

Louisa. 
[Laughing  sillily.]     Oh,  Stephen! 


act  m]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  165 

Rose. 
We  mustn't  lose  the — what's  the  train  back,  Toby? 

Ponting. 
[Behind  her  chair,  annoyed.]     Five  fifty-seven. 

Rose. 
I  shall  be  dead  with  fatigue;  I've  two  parties  to-night. 

James. 
Parties  ? 

Rose. 

[To   Ponting.]      Destinn    is  singing  at   the  Trench's, 
Toby. 

Stephen. 

[Rising.]     H'm!     Indeed? 

Ann. 

[In  an  undertone,  withdrawing  with  LOUISA  to  the  fire- 
place.]    Singing! 

James. 

[Rising.]      So   you're   going  to  parties,   are  you,   Rose? 
Pretty  sharp  work,  with  Ned  only  a  month  in  his  grave. 

Ponting. 

We're  not  conventional  people. 

Rose. 

[Rising  and  walking  away  to  the  left.]      No,  we  don't 
mourn  openly. 


1 66  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

PONTING. 

We  don't  carry  our  hearts  on  our  what-d'ye-call-it — 
sleeve. 

Rose. 
And  Edward  wasn't  in  the  least  known  in  London  society. 

James. 
[Walking  about  on  the  right.]     You  knew  him. 

PONTING. 

[Seating  himself  on  the  nearer  side  of  the  dining-table  in 
the  middle  chair.]  In  London,  my  friends,  reg'lar  mournin' 
is  confined  to  the  suburbs  nowadays.  May  I  have  an  ash- 
tray? 

Rose. 

[Walking  about  on  the  left.]  And  we  go  to  Harrogate 
on  the  twenty-ninth. 

PONTING. 

Good  Lord,  yes;  I'm  kept  devilish  quiet  there. 

[Ann  takes  a  metal  ash-tray  from  the  mantelpiece  and 
gives  it  to  Stephen,  who  almost  flings  it  on  to  the 
table.  The  door  opens  and  a  maid-servant  enters  fol- 
lowed by  Elkin  and  Vallance.  The  lawyers  carry 
small  leather  bags.     The  servant  retires. 

James. 

[Shaking  hands  heartily  with  Elkin  and  Vallance.] 
Here  you  are! 


act  in]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  167 

Elkin. 

A  minute  or  two  behind  time — my  fault. 

Stephen. 

How  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Elkin?  [Shaking  hands  with  Val- 
lance.]      Good-afternoon. 

Elkin. 
[To  Ponting.]     How  d'ye  do? 

PONTING. 

[Shortly,  not  rising.]     H'ah  you? 

Vallance. 

[Shaking  hands  with  Ann  and  LOUISA  and  bowing  to 
Rose.]     How  do  you  do? 

Elkin. 
[To  Rose.]     Hope  you're  very  well,  Mrs.  Ponting. 

Rose. 

Thanks. 

Vallance. 
[To  Ponting,  who  nods  in  return.]     Good-afternoon. 

Ponting. 

[Bringing  the  palm  of  his  hand  down  upon  the  table.] 
Now,  then! 

James. 

[To  Elkin  and  Vallance,  inviting  them  by  a  gesture 
to  be  seated.]  Excuse  the  dining-room,  gentlemen;  looks 
more  like  business  than  the  drawing-room. 


1 68  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

Stephen. 
[On  the  left.]     Where's  Tad? 

Ann. 

[Seating  herself  at  the  further  side  of  the  dining-table  in 
the  middle  chair.]     Yes,  where's  Tad? 

Louisa. 
[Sitting  beside  her.]     Where  are  Tad  and  Phyllis? 

James. 
[Looking  at  his  watch.]     Five  past,  by  my  watch. 

Rose. 

[Sitting  at  the  left-hand  end  of  the  table.]      Oh,  never 
mind  them. 

James. 
[To  Stephen.]     P'r'aps  you  told  'em  four-thirty? 

Stephen. 
[Nettled.]     Perhaps  I  told  them! 

James. 

All  right,  all  right;  don't  flare  up!     P'r'aps  /  did;  there 
was  a  talk  of  making  it  half-past. 

Stephen. 
[Raising  his  arms.]     On  the  day  I  go  to  press 


act  in]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  169 

James. 

Ring  the  bell.     [Opening  the  door  and  calling.]     Maud! 

Maud ! 

[Stephen  rings  the  bell.  Elkin  and  Vallance  are 
now  seated,  Elkin  in  the  further  chair  at  the  right- 
hand  end  of  the  dining-table,  Vallance  in  the  chair 
between  Elkin  and  Ann.  They  open  their  bags  and 
sort  and  arrange  their  papers. 

PONTING. 

We  shall  be  here  till  midnight. 

James. 
Maud ! 

Rose. 
[Pushing  her  chair  away  from  the  table.]      How  vexing! 

PONTING. 

[With  a  sneer.]     I  suppose  one  can  buy  a  soot  of  pyjamas 
in  the  town,  eh,  Mrs.  James? 

Elkin. 

/  sha'n't  detain  you  long. 

[The  servant  appears  at  the  door. 

James. 
Maud,  run  down  to  Nelson  Villas — just  as  you  are 


Rose. 

[Satirically.]     Don't  hurry  them,  Jim.     Phyllis  is  smart- 
ening herself  up. 


170  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

Stephen. 

{Seating  himself  in  the  further  chair  at  the  left-hand  end 
of  the  dining-table,  loudly.]  Say  we  are  waiting  for  Mr. 
Thaddeus. 

James. 

[To  the  girl.]  Mr.  James  and  the  family  are  waiting 
for  Mr.  Thaddeus.  [As  he  closes  the  door.]  Go  along 
Collier  Street;  you  may  meet  him. 

PONTING. 

[Fussily.]  We  can  deal  with  preliminaries,  at  any  rate. 
Kindly  push  that  ash-tray  a  little  nearer.  [To  Vallance.] 
Mr.  Vallance 

James. 

[Leaving  the  door,  resenting  Ponting's  assumption  of 
authority.]  I  beg  your  pardon,  Colonel;  we'll  give  my 
brother  another  five  minutes'  grace,  with  your  permission. 

PONTING. 

[Shrugging  his  shoulders.]  By  all  means  —  ten  — 
twenty 

James. 

[Finding  that  he  has  the  neivspaper  in  his  hand.]     Oh — 

here !     [Opening  the  paper.]     While  we're  waiting  for 

Tad 

Stephen. 

Ah,  yes.     Read  it  aloud,  Jim. 

PONTING. 

[Rising  and  moving  aivay  impatiently.]     Tsch! 


act  in]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  171 

James. 

Mr.  Vallance — Mr.  Elkin — oblige  us  by  listening  to  this. 
It's  from  the  Courier. 


Stephen. 
This  week's  Courier — published  to-day- 

Vallance. 


[To  Elkin.]     One  of  our  local  papers. 

James. 

Owned  by  a  feller  0'  the  name  of  Hammond.  [Read- 
ing.]    "Town  Topics." 

Ann. 
He  married  a  Miss  Robson. 

Louisa. 
A  dreadful  woman. 

Stephen. 

Sssh,  sssh !  Mr.  Hammond's  offensive  remarks  are  usually 
directed  against  myself,  but  in  this  instance 

James. 

[Walking  about  as  he  reads.]  "A  curious  complication 
arises  in  connection  with  the  estate  of  the  late  Mr.  Edward 
Mortimore  of  Linchpool." 

Stephen. 
He  doesn't  cloak  his  attack,  you  see. 


i72  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

James. 

"As  many  of  our  readers  are  aware — [running  his  hands 
over  his  pockets]  as  many  of  our  readers  are  aware " 

Stephen. 
He  has  made  them  aware  of  it. 

James. 
[To  Ann.]     Where  did  I  put  them,  mother? 

Ann. 


[Producing  her  spectacles.]      Try  mine,  James 

[Ann  gives  her  spectacles  to  Stephen,  Stephen  gn 
them  to  Rose,  and  Rose  presents  them  to  James. 


phen  gives 


James. 

I'm  getting  as  blear-eyed  as  Stephen.  [Resuming.]  "As 
many  of  our  readers  are  aware,  the  whole  of  that  gentleman's 
wealth  passes,  in  consequence  of  his  having  died  intestate,  to 
a  well-known  Singlehampton  family " 

Louisa. 
That  points  to  us. 

Stephen. 
[Irritably.]     Of  course  it  does;  of  course  it  does. 

Louisa. 

There's  no  better-known  family  in  Singlehampton  than 
ours. 

Stephen. 

Sssh,  sssh! 


act  m]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  173 

James. 
" two  members  of  which " 


Ann. 

The  Mockfords  were  an  older  family — but  where  are  the 
Mockfords? 

James. 

[To  Ann.]      Give  me  a  chance,   Ann.      [Continuing.] 
-two  members  of  which  have  been  for  many  years  prom- 


inently  associated  with   the   temperance   movement   in   this 
town." 

Stephen. 
[Rising.]     My  brother  James  and  myself. 

James. 

[Standing  at  the  table,  facing  ELKIN  and  VALLANCE,  in 
his  oratorical  manner.]  Twelve  years  ago,  gentlemen,  I  was 
instrumental  in  founding  the  Singlehampton  and  Claybrook 
Temperance  League 

Louisa. 
Stephen  was  another  of  the  founders. 

Stephen. 
[Joining  James.]     I  was  another. 

James. 

And  day  in  and  day  out  I  have  devoted  my  best  energies 
to  furthering  the  objects  of  the  League  in  Singlehampton 
and  in  Claybrook. 


174  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

Stephen. 

Very  materially  aided  by  the  Times  and  Mirror,  a  tem- 
perance organ. 

James. 

And  I  submit  that  it's  holding  us  up  to  ridicule  and  con- 
tempt— holding  us  up  to  public  obloquy  and  derision 

Vallance. 

[To  James.]  What  is  your  objection  to  the  paragraph, 
Mr.  Mortimore? 

James. 
Objection! 

Elkin. 

There's  more  to  come,  I  expect. 

James. 

[Grimly.]  Aye,  a  bit  more.  [Sitting  at  the  table.] 
What  d'ye  think  of  this?  [Reading.]  "When  it  is  remem- 
bered that  the  late  Mr.  Mortimore's  fortune  was  derived 
from  the  brewing  and  the  sale  of  beer " 

Stephen. 
[Sitting  beside  James.]      The  word  "beer"  is  in  italics. 

Vallance. 
Oh,  I  see. 

James. 

" it  will  be   understood   that   our   two   distinguished 

fellow-townsmen  are  placed   in  an  extremely  difficult  posi- 


•  >5 

non. 


act  m]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  175 

Stephen. 
This  is  the  most  spiteful  part  of  it. 

James. 

""yVe  have  no  doubt,  however,  that,  as  conscientious  men, 
they  will  prove  fully  equal  to  the  occasion  by  either  renounc- 
ing their  share  of  their  late  brother's  property  or  by  dedi- 
cating it  entirely  to  the  advancement  of  the  cause  they  have 
at  heart."  [Throiving  the  newspaper  to  Elkin  and  Val- 
Lance.]     There  it  is,  gentlemen. 

[In  wandering  round  the  room,  Ponting  has  come  upon 
the  decanter  of  wine  and  the  wine-glasses  standing  on 
the  sideboard.    He  is  now  filling  a  glass. 

Ponting. 

Every  man  has  a  right  to  his  convictions.  {Taking  the 
glass  in  his  hand.]     A  little  alcohol  hurts  nobody 

James. 
You  won't  find  any  in  my  house. 

Ponting. 


What's  this,  then? 
Currant. 


James. 


Ponting. 


[Replacing  the  glass,  with  a  wry  face.]     My  dear  Morti- 

more ! 

[He  sits  at  the  right-hand  end  of  the  table,  beside 
Elkin,  and  pries  at  the  documents  which  Elkin  has 
taken  from  his  bag.  Vallance  and  Elkin  are  read- 
ing the  paragraph  together,  VALLANCE  draining  his 
chair  closer  to  Elkin's  for  that  purpose. 


176  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  in 

James. 

[To  Vallance.]     Well,  what's  your  opinion,  Mr.  Val- 
Iance?     Is  that  libellous,  or  isn't  it? 

Stephen. 

Does  it,  or  does  it  not,  go  beyond  the  bounds  of  fair  com- 
ment— eh,  Mr.  Elkin? 

Vallance. 

[Pacifically.]     Oh,  but  aren't  you  attaching  a  great  deal 
too  much  importance  to  this? 

James. 
Too  much ! 

Elkin. 

Why  not  ignore  it? 

Stephen. 
Ignore  it ! 

Vallance. 
Treat  it  as  a  piece  of  pure  chaff — badinage 


Elkin. 
In  more  or  less  bad  taste. 

Vallance. 
Take  no  notice  of  it  whatever. 

James. 

[Rising  and  walking  away  to  the  fireplace.]  Take  no 
notice  of  it!  The  townspeople  will  take  notice  of  it  pretty 
quickly. 


act  m]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  177 

Stephen. 

[Rising.]      In   my   opinion,    that   paragraph   renders   our 
position  in  the  League  absolutely  untenable. 

James. 

[Standing   over  Vallance.]      Unless   that   paragraph   is 
apologized  for,  withdrawn 

Stephen. 
[Standing  over  Elkin.]     Explained  away 

James. 
Aye,  explained  away 

Vallance. 

I  don't  see  how  it  can  be  explained  away. 

Elkin. 

[Dryly.]      The  proposition   is   a   perfectly  accurate   one, 
whatever  you  may  think  of  the  corollary. 

Vallance. 
You  are  ardent  advocates  of  temperance. 

Elkin. 
Your  late  brother's  property  was  amassed  mainly  by  beer. 

Vallance. 
It  can  hardly  be  explained  away. 

Stephen. 

[Walking  to   the  left.}      Good   heavens   above,   I've  ex- 
plained things  away  often  enough  in  my  paper ! 


178  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

James. 

{Coming  forward  on  the  right.]  This  does  us  at  the 
League,  then — does  us;  knocks  our  Influence  into  a  cocked 
hat. 

Elkin. 

[To  James  and  Stephen,  while  Vallance  folds  the 
paper.]  After  alL  gentlemen,  when  you  come  to  reflect 
upon  it,  the  laugh  is  with  you. 

James. 
Is  it? 

Elkin. 

[Genially.]  The  Courier  has  its  little  joke,  but  you've 
got  the  money,  remember. 

James. 
Oh,  that's  true. 

Stephen. 

[Walking  about  on  the  left.]     That's  true;  that's  true. 

James. 

[Walking  about  on  the  right,  rattling  his  loose  cash.] 
Aye,  we've  got  the  mopuses. 

Rose. 

[Tilting  her  chair  on  its  hind  legs.]  I  say,  Jim — Stephen 
— why  don't  you  two  boys,  between  you,  present  the  League 
with  a  handsome  hall ? 

James. 
[Pausing  in  his  ivalk.]      Hall? 


act  in]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  179 

Rose. 

Build  the  temperance  folk  a  meeting-place  of  their  ewn 
— a  headquarters 

Ponting. 

[Mischievously.]      He,   he,    he!      That    'ud   smooth    'em 
down.     Capital  idea,  Rosie! 

James  and  Stephen. 
We! 

James. 

I'd  see  'em  damned  first.     [To  the  ladies.]     I  beg  par- 
don  

Ann. 

[With  unusual  animation.]     No,  no;  you're  quite  right, 
James. 

Stephen. 

[At   the   fireplace.]      That   would   be   playing   into   Mr. 
Hammond's  hands  with  a  vengeance. 

James. 

[Walking  across  to  the  left,  derisively.]      Ha!     Wouldn't 
Hammond  crow,  hey!     Ha,  ha,  ha! 

Stephen. 

No,    if    the   situation    becomes    too    acute — painful    as    it 
would  be  to  me — I  shall  resign. 

James. 
[Determinedly.]     Resign. 


180  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

Stephen. 
Sever  my  connection  with  the  League. 

James. 

Leave  '/em  to  swill  themselves  with  their  lemonade  and 
boiled  tea ! 

Stephen. 

[Coming  forward  on  the  right.]  And  to  find  out  how 
they  get  on  without  us. 

James. 

Serve  'em  up  in  their  own  juice! 

Stephen. 

[Meeting  James  in  the  middle  of  the  room  on  the  nearer 
side  of  the  dining -table.]  You  know,  Jim,  we've  never  gone 
quite  so  far — you  and  I — with  the  principles  of  temperance 
as  some. 

James. 

[Eyeing  him  curiously.]     Never  gone  so  far ? 

Stephen. 
As  old  Bob  Amphlett,  for  example — never. 

James. 
Oh,  yes,  we  have,  and  a  deuced  sight  further. 

Stephen. 

Excuse  me — I've  always  been  for  moderation  rather  than 
for  total  abstinence. 


act  m]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  181 

James. 

Have  yer?  [Walking  away  to  the  left.]  First  I've  heard 
of  it. 

Stephen. 

Anyhow,  a  man  may  broaden  his  views  with  years  and 
experience.  [Argumentatively.~\  Take  the  hygienic  aspect 
of  the  case.  Only  the  other  day,  Sir  Vincent  West,  prob- 
ably the  ablest  physician  in  England 

Louisa. 
[Abruptly.]     Stephen ! 

Stephen. 
[Angrily.]     Don't  interrupt  me. 

Louisa. 

[With  energy,  rising.]  I've  maintained  it  throughout  my 
life — it's  nothing  new  from  my  lips 

Stephen. 

What ? 

Louisa. 

There  are  two  sides  to  every  question. 

Stephen. 

[Hurrying  round  the  table  to  join  LOUISA.]  Exactly — 
exactly — as  Lou  says 

Louisa. 

It's  been  almost  a  second  religion  with  me.  I've  preached 
it  in  season  and  out  of  season 


1 82  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

Stephen. 
{With  conviction.]     There  are  two  sides 


Louisa. 
Two  sides  to  every  question. 

James. 

[To  Ann,  pointing  to  the  door.]    Mother [The  door 

has  been  opened  by  another  maid-servant,  who  carries  a  tray 
on  which  are  a  plated  kettle,  a  dish  of  toast,  and  a  plentiful 
supply  of  bread-and-butter.  The  girl  remains  in  the  door- 
zuay.  Ann  rises  and  goes  to  her  and  takes  the  kettle  from 
the  tray.  James  comes  forward  and  seats  himself  on  the 
nearer  side  of  the  dining-table  in  the  middle  chair.]  Look 
here;  I  don't  wait  another  minute  for  the  Tads — not  a 
second. 

PONTING. 

Ah! 

[Louisa  follows  Ann  and  takes  the  toast  and  the  bread- 
and-butter  from  the  servant,  who  then  disappears, 
closing  the  door. 

Stephen. 

[Again  sitting  in  the  further  chair  at  the  left-hand  end 
of  the  dining-table.]     Inexcusable  of  them — inexcusable. 

[Ann  and  Louisa  come  to  the  tea-table  and,  drawing 
the  two  armchairs  up  to  it,  seat  themselves  and  pre- 
pare the  tea.  The  kettle  is  set  upon  the  stand,  the 
spirit-lamp  is  lighted,  Ann  measures  the  tea  from  the 
caddy  into  the  pot,  and  Louisa  cuts  the  plum-cake. 

James. 
Mr.  Elkin — Mr.  Vallance 


act  m]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  183 

PONTING. 

Now,  Mr.  Vallance;  now,  Mr.  Elkin! 

Elkin. 
[  7V  Vallance.  ]    Will  you ? 

Vallance. 
No,  no — you 

Elkin. 

Well,  gentlemen — [to  Rose]  Mrs.  Ponting — Mr.  Val- 
lance and  I  have  to  report  to  you  that  we've  received  no 
communication  of  any  kind  in  answer  to  our  circulars  and 
advertisements 

James. 

[To  Ann,  who  is  making  a  clatter  with  the  kettle. ~\ 
Steady,  mother! 

Ponting. 
[To  the  ladies  at  the  tea-table.]     Sssh,  sssh,  sssh! 

Elkin. 

No  communication  from  any  solicitor  who  has  prepared 
a  will  for  your  late  brother,  nor  from  anybody  who  has 
knowingly  witnessed  a  will  executed  by  him. 

Stephen. 
Mr.  Vallance  has  apprised  us  of  this  already. 

James. 

[Raising  a  hand.]  Order!  There's  a  formal  way  of 
doing  things  and  a  lax  way. 


1 84  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  in 

Stephen. 
I  merely  mentioned 


[Ponting  raps  the  table  sharply  with  his  knuckles. 

Elkin. 

1  may  say  that,  in  addition  to  the  issuing  of  the  circulars 
and  advertisements,  I  have  made  search  in  every  place  1 
could  think  of,  and  have  inquired  of  every  person  likely  to 
be  of  help  in  the  matter.  In  fact,  I've  taken  every  possible 
step  to  find,  or  trace,  a  will. 

Vallance. 

Without  success. 

Elkin. 

Without  success. 

James. 

[Magnanimously.]  And  /  say  that  the  family  bears  no 
grudge  to  Mr.  Elkin  for  doing  his  duty. 

Stephen. 
[In  the  same  spirit.]     Hear,  hear! 

Ponting. 
[Testily.]     Of  course  not;  of  course  not. 

Rose. 

It's  all  the  more  satisfactory,  it  seems  to  me,  that  he  has 
worried  round. 

James. 

The  family  thanks  Mr.  Elkin. 


act  in]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  185 

Stephen. 
We  thank  Mr.  Elkin. 

Elkin. 

[After  a  stiff  inclination  of  the  head.]  The  only  other 
observation  I  wish  to  make  is  that  several  gentlemen  em- 
ployed in  the  office  of  the  brewery  in  Linchpool  have  at  dif- 
ferent times  witnessed  the  late  Mr.  Mortimore's  signature 
to  documents  which  have  apparently  required  the  attestation 
of  two  witnesses. 

PONTING. 

\Curtly.]      That  amounts  to  nothing. 

James. 

There  are  a  good  many  documents,  aren't  there,  where 
two  witnesses  are  required  to  a  signature? 

Elkin. 
Deeds  under  seal,  certainly. 

Stephen. 
I  remember  having  to  sign,  some  years  ago- 


[Ponting  again  raps  the  table. 
Vallance. 

But  none  of  these  gentlemen  at  the  brewery  can  recall  that 
any  particular  document  appeared  to  him  to  be  a  will,  which 
is  not  a  document  under  seal. 

James. 

Besides,  a  man  signing  a  will  always  tells  the  witnesses 
that  it  is  his  will  they're  witnessing,  doesn't  he,  Mr.  Val- 
lance ? 


1 86  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

Vallance. 

A  solicitor  would,  in  the  ordinary  course  of  practice,  in- 
form the  witnesses  to  a  will  of  the  nature  of  the  document 
they  were  attesting,  undoubtedly. 

Elkin. 

Granted;  but  a  testator,  supposing  he  were  executing  his 
will  in  his  own  house  or  office,  and  not  in  the  presence  of  a 
solicitor,  is  under  no  legal  necessity  to  do  so,  and  may  omit 
to  do  so. 

James. 

[Rolling  about  in  his  chair.]     Oh,  well,  we  needn't 

PONTING. 

[Looking  at  his  watch.]      In  heaven's  name ! 

Stephen. 
We  needn't  go  into  all  this. 

Elkin. 

No,  no;  I  simply  draw  attention  to  the  point.  [Unfold- 
ing a  document.]  Well,  gentlemen — Mrs.  Ponting — this 
is  a  statement — [handing  another  document  to  Vallance  J 
here  is  a  copy  of  it,  Mr.  Vallance — this  is  a  statement  of 
particulars  of  stocks,  shares,  and  other  items  of  estate,  with 
their  values  at  the  death  of  the  late  Mr.  Mortimore,  and  a 
schedule  of  the  debts  so  far  as  they  are  known  to  me. 

[There  is  a  general  movement.  James  rises  and  goes 
to  Vallance.  Stephen  also  rises,  stretching  out 
an  eager  hand  towards  Vallance.  Rose  draws 
nearer  to  the  table,  Ponting  still  closer  to  Elkin. 
Ann  and  Louisa,  too,  show  a  disposition  to  desert 
the  tea-table. 


act  in]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  187 

James. 

[To  Ann,  as  he  passes  her.]     You  get  on  with  the  tea, 

mother.      [To  Vallance.]      Allow  me,  Mr.  Vallance 

[Vallance  gives  him  the  duplicate  of  the  statement. 

PONTING. 

What's  it  come  out  at;  what's  it  come  out  at? 

Stephen. 
What's  it  come  out  at? 

Rose. 
Yes,  what  does  it  come  out  at?    Jim 

Stephen. 
Jim 


[James  joins  Stephen  and  they  examine  the  duplicate 
together.  Rose  rises  and  endeavors  to  read  it  with 
them. 

Elkin. 

I  estimate  the  gross  value  of  the  estate,  which,  as  you  will 
see,  consists  entirely  of  personal  property,  at  one  hundred  and 
ninety-two  thousand  pounds. 

PONTING. 

The  gross  value. 

Stephen. 
Yes,  but  what  do  ive  get? 

Ponting  and  Rose. 
What  do  we  get? 


188  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  iii 

James. 

After  all  deductions. 

Elkin. 

Roughly  speaking,  after  payment  of  debts,  death  duties, 
and  expenses,  there  will  be  about  a  hundred  and  seventy 
thousand  pounds  to  divide.  [Those  who  are  standing  sit 
again.  James  seats  himself  next  to  Stephen  and,  with  pen 
and  ink ,  they  make  calculations  on  paper.  Ponting  does 
the  same.  Rose,  closing  her  eyes,  fans  herself  happily,  and 
the  two  ladies  at  the  tea-table  resume  their  preparations  with 
beaming  countenances.  Elkin  leans  back  in  his  chair.]  Mr. 
Vallance 

Vallance. 

[To  Rose,  James,  and  Stephen.]  Mrs.  Ponting  and 
gentlemen — [Ponting  raps  the  table  and  James  and 
Stephen  look  up]  I  advise  you  that,  as  next-of-kin  of  the 
late  Mr.  Mortimore,  if  you  are  satisfied — and  in  my  opinion 
you  may  reasonably  be  satisfied — that  he  died  intestate — I 
advise  you  that  any  one  or  more  of  you,  not  exceeding  three, 
[the  door  opens  quietly  and  Thaddeus  appears.  He  is  very 
pale,  but  is  outwardly  calm.  After  a  look  in  the  direction 
of  the  table,  he  closes  the  door]  may  apply  for  Letters  of 
Administration  of  your  late  brother's  estate.  It  isn't  neces- 
sary or  usual,  however,  I  may  tell  you,  to  have  more  than 

one  administrator,  and  I  suggest 

[Hearing  the  click  of  the  lock  as  Thaddeus  shuts  the 
door,  everybody  turns  and  glances  at  him. 

Rose. 
[Opening  her  eyes.]      Here's  Tad. 

Stephen. 
[Grumpily.]     Oh 


act  in]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  189 

Rose. 
[Tossing  THADDEUS  a  greeting.}      Hallo! 

James. 
[To  THADDEUS,  with  a  growl.]     Oh,  you've  arrived. 

Stephen. 
[To  Thaddeus.]     Did  I  say  four  or  half-past ? 

Louisa. 
Where's  Phyllis? 

Ann. 
Where's  Phyllis? 

Thaddeus. 

[In  a  low  voice,  advancing.]      She — she  didn't  feel  well 

enough 

[PONTING  raps  the  inkstand  with  his  penholder. 

James. 

[Pointing  to  the  chair  beside  him,  imperatively.]  Sit 
down;  sit  down.  [Thaddeus  sits,  his  elbows  on  the  table, 
his  eyes  cast  down.]    Mr.  Vallance 

Vallance. 
[To  Thaddeus.]     Good-afternoon,  Mr.  Mortimore. 

Elkin. 
[Nodding  to  Thaddeus.]     How  d'ye  do? 

Thaddeus. 
[Almost  inaudibly.]     Good-afternoon. 


igo  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

Vallance. 
[To  the  others.]     I  suppose  we  needn't  go  back ? 

A  Murmur. 
No,  no;  no,  no. 

James. 

[Pushing  the  duplicate  of  the  statement  under  Thaddeus's 
eyes.]     A  hundred  and  seventy  thousand  pounds  to  divide. 

Stephen. 
A  hundred  and  seventy  thousand. 

PONTING. 

[Finishing  his  sum.]  Forty-two  thousand  five  hundred 
apiece. 

Vallance. 

[Resuming.]  I  was  saying  that  it  isn't  usual  to  have 
more  than  one  administrator,  and  I  was  about  to  suggest 
that  the  best  course  will  be  for  you,  Mr.  James,  to  act  in 
that  capacity,  and  for  you,  Mr.  Stephen,  and  you,  Mr. 
Thaddeus,  or  one  of  you,  and  Colonel  Ponting,  to  be  the 
sureties  to  the  bond  for  the  due  administration  of  the  estate. 

James. 
[Cheerfully.]     I'm  in  your  hands,  Mr.  Vallance. 

Stephen. 
I'm  agreeable. 

Ponting. 
And  I. 


act  m]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  191 

Vallance. 

The  procedure  is  this — perhaps  I'd  better  explain  it. 
[Producing  a  form  of  "Oath  for  Administrators"  which  is 
among  his  papers.}  The  intended  administrator  will  make 
an  affidavit  stating  when  and  where  the  deceased  died,  that 
he  died  intestate,  [Thaddeus  looks  up]  a  bachelor  without 
a  parent,  and  that  the  deponent  is  a  natural  and  lawful 
brother  and  one  of  the  next-of-kin  of  the  deceased 

Thaddeus. 
[Touching  Vallance's  arm.}     Mr.  Vallance 


Vallance. 
Eh? 

Thaddeus. 

We — we  mustn't  go  on  with  this. 

Vallance. 
I  beg  pardon? 

Thaddeus. 

The  family  mustn't  go  on  with  this. 

Vallance. 
Mustn't  go  on ? 

James. 
[To  Thaddeus.]     What  a'yer  talking  about? 

Thaddeus. 
[After  a  hurried  look  round.]     There — there  was  a  will. 

Vallance. 
A  will  ? 


192  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

Thaddeus. 
He — he  made  a  will. 

James. 
Who  did? 

Thaddeus. 

Edward.    He — he  left  a  will. 

James. 
[Roughly.]     What  the ! 

Elkin. 

[To  James,  interrupting  him.]  One  moment.  Your 
brother  has  something  to  say  to  us,  Mr.  Mortimore. 

Stephen. 
What — what's  he  mean  by ? 

Elkin. 

[To  Stephen.]  Please — [To  Thaddeus.]  Yes,  sir? 
[Thaddeus  is  silent.]  What  about  a  will?  [Thaddeus 
is  still  silent.]     Eh? 

Thaddeus. 
I — I  saw  it. 

Elkin. 
Saw  a  will? 

Thaddeus. 

I — I  opened  it — I — I  read  it 


Elkin. 
Read  it? 


act  m]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  193 

Thaddeus. 

I — tore  it  up — got  rid  of  it. 

[Again  there  is  silence,  the  MORTIMORES  and  the  Pon- 
TINGS  sitting  open-mouthed  and  motionless. 

Elkin. 

[After  a  while.]  Mr.  Vallance,  I  think  we  ought  to  tell 
Mr.  Mortimore  that  he  appears  to  be  making  a  confession 
of  the  gravest  kind 

Vallance. 
Yes. 

Elkin. 

One  that  puts  him  in  a  very  serious  position. 

Vallance. 

[To  Thaddeus,  after  a  further  pause.]  Mr.  Morti- 
more  ? 

[Thaddeus  makes  no  response. 

Elkin. 

If,  understanding  that,  he  chooses  to  continue,  there  is 
nothing  to  prevent  our  hearing  him. 

Thaddeus. 

[Looking  straight  before  him,  his  arms  still  upon  the  table, 
locking  and  unlocking  his  hands  as  he  speaks.]  It — it 
happened  on  the  Wednesday  night — in  Cannon  Row — in 
Ned's  house — the  night  before  he  died — the  night  we  were 
left  without  a  nurse.  [Another  pause.  Vallance  takes  a 
sheet  of  paper  and  selects  a  pen.  Elkin  pushes  the  inkstand 
nearer  to  him.]     Mrs.  James — and — and  Mrs.  Stephen — my 

— my  sisters-in-law 

[Ann  and  Louisa  get  to  their  feet  and  advance  a  step 
or  two. 


194  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  iii 

Elkin. 

[Hearing  the  rustle  of  their  skirts  and  turning  to  them.] 
Keep  your  seats,  ladies,  please. 

[They  sit  again,  drawing  their  chairs  close  together. 

Thaddeus. 

My  sisters-in-law  had  gone  home — that  is,  to  their  hotel 
— to  get  a  few  hours'  sleep  in  case  of  their  having  to  sit  up 
through  the  night.  Jim  and  Stephen  and  I  were  out  and 
about,  trying  to  find  a  night-nurse  who'd  take  Nurse  Ral- 
ston's  place  temporarily.  At  about  nine  o'clock,  I  looked  in 
at  Cannon  Row,  to  see  how  things  were  getting  on. 

Vallance. 

[Who  is  writing.]  The  Wednesday?  Mr.  Edward 
Mortimore  dying  on  Thursday,  the  twentieth  of  June 

Elkin. 
On  the  morning  of  Thursday,  the  twentieth. 

Vallance. 

That  makes  the  Wednesday  we  are  speaking  of,  Wednes- 
day, June  the  nineteenth. 

Elkin. 
[To  Thaddeus.]     You  looked  in  at  Cannon  Row ? 

Vallance. 

At  about  nine  o'clock  on  the  night  of  Wednesday,  June 
the  nineteenth. 


act  in]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  195 

Thaddeus. 

I — I  went  up-stairs  and  sat  by  Ned's  bed,  and  by  and  by 
he  began  talking  to  me  about — about  Phyllis.  He — he'd 
taken  rather  a  fancy  to  her,  he  said,  and  he  wanted  to  give 
her  a  memento — a  keepsake. 

Elkin. 

Phyllis ? 

Vallance. 

[To  Elkin.]     His  wife.    [To  Thaddeus.]    Your  wife? 

[Thaddeus  nods. 

Elkin. 
[Recollecting.]      Of  course. 

Thaddeus. 

[Moistening  his  lips  ivith  his  tongue.]  He — he  had  some 
little  bits  of  jewelry  in  his  safe,  and  he — he  asked  me  to  go 
down-stairs  and — and  to  bring  them  up  to  him. 

Elkin. 

[Keenly.]     In  his  safe? 

Vallance. 

The  safe  in  the  library? 

[Thaddeus  nods  again. 

Elkin. 
Quite  so. 

Vallance. 
And — er ? 


l96  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  in 

Thaddeus. 
He — he  gave  me  his  keys,  and  I — I  went  down — I 


[He  stops  suddenly  and  Vallance  glances  at  him. 
Noticing  his  extreme  pallor,  VALLANCE  looks  round 
the  room.  Seeing  the  water-bottle  upon  the  side- 
board, Vallance  rises  and  fills  the  tumbler.  Re- 
turning to  the  table,  he  places  the  glass  before  Th.ad- 
deus  and  resumes  his  seat. 

Thaddeus. 

[After  a  gulp  of  water.]     It  was — it  was  in  the  drawer 
of  the  safe — the  drawer 

Elkin. 
What  was? 

Thaddeus. 

[Wiping    his    mouth    with    his    handkerchief.]      A   large 
envelope — a  large  envelope — the  envelope  containing  the  will. 

Vallance. 
How  did  you  know ? 

Thaddeus. 
"My  Will"  was  written  on  it. 

Vallance. 
[Writing.]     "My  Will" 

Elkin. 

On    the   envelope?      [Thaddeus   nods.]      You   say  you 
opened  it? 

[Thaddeus  nods. 


act  m]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  197 

Vallance. 
Opened  the  envelope 

Elkin. 
And*  inside — you  found ? 

Vallance. 
What  did  you  find? 

Thaddeus. 
Ned's  will. 

Vallance. 

[Writing.]  What  appeared  to  be  your  brother  Edward's 
will. 

Elkin. 

You  read  it?  [Thaddeus  nods.]  You  recollect  who  was 
interested   under   it?      [Thaddeus   nods.]      Will   you   tell 

us ? 

[The  Mortimores  and  the  Pontings  crane  their  necks 
forward,  listening  breathlessly. 

Thaddeus. 

He  left  everything — [taking  another  gulp  of  water]  every- 
thing— to  Miss  Thornhill. 

[There  is  a  slight,  undecided  movement  on  the  part  of 
the  Mortimores  and  the  Pontings. 

Elkin. 

[Calmly  but  firmly.]  Keep  your  seats;  keep  your  seats, 
please.  [To  Thaddeus.]  Can  you  recall  the  general  form 
of  the  will  ? 


ig8  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

Thaddeus. 

[Straining  his  memory.]  Everything  he  had — died  pos- 
sessed of — to  Helen  Thornhill — spinster — of  some  address 
in  Paris — absolutely.  And — and  he  appointed  her  his  sole 
executrix. 

Elkin. 

Do  you  recollect  the  date? 

Thaddeus. 
Date ? 

Elkin. 

Did  you  observe  the  date  of  the  will? 

Thaddeus. 
[Quickly J]     Oh,  yes;  it  was  made  three  years  ago. 

Elkin. 

[To  Vallance.]     When  she  came  of  age. 

Thaddeus. 

Oh,  and  he  asked  her  to  remember  his  servants — old  ser- 
vants at  the  brewery  and  in  Cannon  Row.  [Leaning  back, 
exhausted.]  There  was  nothing  else.  It  was  very  short — 
written  by  Ned 

Elkin. 

The  whole  of  it?  [Thaddeus  nods,  with  half-closed 
eyes.]  The  whole  of  it  was  in  his  handwriting?  [Thad- 
deus nods  again.]  Ah !  [To  Vallance,  with  a  note  of  tri- 
umph in  his  voice.]  A  holograph  will,  Mr.  Vallance,  pre- 
pared by  the  man  himself. 


act  in]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  199 

Vallance. 

[Now  taking  up  the  questioning  of  Thaddeus.]  Tell 
me,  Mr.  Mortimore — have  you  any  exact  recollection  as  to 
whether  this  document,  which  you  describe  as  a  will,  was 
duly  signed  and  witnessed? 


Thaddeus. 
[Rousing  himself.]      It  was — it  was — signed  by  Ned. 

Vallance. 

Was  it  signed,  not  only  by  your  brother,  but  by  two  wit- 
nesses under  an  attestation  clause  stating  that  the  testator 
signed  in  the  joint  presence  of  those  witnesses  and  that  each 
of  them  signed  in  his  presence? 

Thaddeus. 
I — I  don't  recollect  that. 

Vallance. 

[Writing.]     You've  no  recollection  of  that. 

[James,  Stephen,  and  Ponting  stir  themselves. 

James. 
[Hoarsely.]     He  doesn't  recollect  that,  Mr.  Vallance. 

Stephen. 
[In  quavering  tones.]     No,  he — he  doesn't  recollect  that. 

Ponting. 

[Pulling  at  his  moustache  ivith  trembling  fingers.]     That's 
most  important,  Mr.  Vallance,  isn't  it — isn't  it? 


200  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

Vallance. 

[To  Thaddeus,  not  heeding  the  interruption.]  You  say 
you  destroyed  this  document 

Elkin. 
Tore  it  up. 

Vallance. 

When — and  where  ?    In  the  room — in  the  library  ? 

Thaddeus. 
[Thinking.]     N-no — out  of  doors. 

Vallance. 
Out  of  doors.     When? 

Thaddeus. 
[At  a  loss.]     When ? 

Vallance. 

When.  [Looking  at  him  in  surprise.]  You  can't  remem- 
ber  ? 

Thaddeus. 

[Recollecting.]  Oh,  yes,  yes,  yes,  yes.  Some  time  be- 
tween ten  and  eleven  on  the  Thursday  morning,  after  I  left 
Phyllis — after  I  left  my  wife  at  Roper's  to  be  measured  for 
her  black. 

Vallance. 

[Writing.]     What  did  you  do  then? 

Thaddeus. 

[Readily.]  I  went  to  Ford  Street  bridge,  and  tore  up  the 
paper,  and  dropped  the  pieces  into  the  Linch. 


act  in]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  201 

Vallance. 
[Writing. ,]     Into  the  river 

Elkin. 

* 

One  more  question,  Mr.  Mortimore — to  make  your  motive 
perfectly  clear  to  us.  May  we  assume  that,  on  the  night  of 
June  the  nineteenth,  you  were  sufficiently  acquainted  with  the 
law  of  intestacy  to  know  that,  if  this  dying  man  left  no  will, 
you  would  be  likely  to  benefit  considerably  ? 

Thaddeus. 
Well,  I — I  had — the  idea 

Elkin. 
The  idea? 

Thaddeus. 

I — I [Recollecting.]  Oh,  yes;  there'd  been  a  dis- 
cussion in  the  train,  you  see,  on  the  Tuesday,  going  to  Linch- 
pool 

Elkin. 
Discussion  ? 

Thaddeus. 

Among  us  all,  as  to  how  a  man's  money  is  disposed  of, 
if  he  dies  intestate. 

Elkin. 

[Nodding.]  Precisely.  [To  James  and  Stephen.]  You 
remember  that  conversation  taking  place,  gentlemen? 

James. 
Oh,  I — I  dessay. 


202  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

Elkin. 

[To  Thaddeus.]  So  that,  when  you  came  upon  the  en- 
velope with  the  endorsement  upon  it — "My  Will" ? 

Thaddeus. 
[Leaning  his  head  upon  his  hands.]     Yes — yes 

Vallance. 

[Running  his  eyes  over  his  notes,  to  Thaddeus.]  Have 
you  anything  to  add,  Mr.  Mortimore? 

Thaddeus. 

[In  a  muffled  voice.]  No.  [Quickly.]  Oh,  there  is  one 
thing  I  should  like  to  add.  [Brokenly.]  With  regard  to 
Miss  Thornhill — I — I  hope  you'll  bear  in  mind  that  I — that 
none  of  us — heard  from  Mr.  Elkin  of  the  existence  of  a 
child — a  daughter — till  the  Thursday — middleday 


That  is  so. 


Elkin. 


Thaddeus. 


It  doesn't  make  it  much  better;  only — a  girl — alone  in 
the  world — one  wouldn't — [breaking  off]  no,  I've  nothing 
more  to  say. 

Elkin. 

[To  Thaddeus.]  And  we  may  take  it  that  your  present 
act,  Mr.  Mortimore,  is  an  act  of  conscience,  purely? 

[Thaddeus  inclines  his  head.  There  is  silence  again, 
the  Mortimores  and  the  Pontings  presenting  a  pic- 
ture of  utter  wretchedness.  The  ladies'  tears  begin 
to  floiv. 


act  m]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  203 

James. 
[After  a  time,  speaking  with  some  difficulty.]     Well 


Stephen. 
[Piteously.]     Mr.  Vallance ? 

James. 
What — what's  to  be  done,  Mr.  Vallance? 

PONTING. 

[To  the  ladies.]     For  God's  sake,  be  quiet! 

James. 

[A  clenched  fist  on  the  table.]  What  we  want  to  know 
is — what  we  want  to  know  is — who  does  my  brother  Ed- 
ward's money  belong  to  now — her  or  us? 

Stephen. 
[In  agony.]     Her! 

Ponting. 
Don't  be  a  damn  fool,  Mortimore! 

Vallance. 

Well,  gentlemen,  I  confess  I  am  hardly  prepared  to  express 
an  opinion  off-hand  on  the  legal  aspect  of  the  case 

Ponting. 
The  will's  torn  up — it's  destroyed ! 

Stephen. 
It's  destroyed — gone — gone ! 

Ponting. 
Gone. 


204  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

Vallance. 
But  I  need  not  remind  you,  there  is  another  aspect 


PONTING. 

I  don't  care  a  rap  for  any  other  aspect- 


Stephen. 
We  want  the  law  explained  to  us — the  law 

PONTING. 

The  law ! 

James. 
[To  Elkin.]     Mr.  Elkin ? 

Elkin. 
You  appeal  to  me,  gentlemen? 

Stephen  and  Ponting. 
Yes — yes 

Elkin. 

Then  I  feel  bound  to  tell  you  that  /  shall  advise  Miss 
Thornhill,  as  the  executrix  named  in  the  will,  to  apply  to 
the  Court  for  probate  of  its  substance  and  effect 

Vallance. 

[To  Elkin.]  Ask  the  Court  to  presume  the  will  to  have 
been  made  in  due  form ? 

Elkin. 

Decidedly. 

[Stephen  and  Ponting  fall  back  in  their  seats  in  a 
stupor,  and  once  more  there  is  silence,  broken  only  by 
the  sound  of  the  women  sniveling.  Elkin  and 
VALLANCE  slowly  proceed  to  collect  their  papers. 


act  in]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  205 

James. 

[Turning  upon  Thaddeus,  brutally.]  Have  you — have 
you  told  Phyllis — have  you  told  your  wife  what  you've  been 
up  to? 

[Mt  the  mention  of  Phyllis,  there  is  a  movement  of 
indignation  on  the  part  of  the  ladies. 

Rose. 
Ha! 

James. 

[To  Thaddeus.]     Have  yer? 

Thaddeus. 

Y-yes — just  before  I  came  out.     [Weakly.]     That — that's 
what  made  me  so  late. 

James. 

[Between  his  teeth.]     What  does  she  think  of  yer? 

Thaddeus. 
Oh,  she — she's  dreadfully — cut  up — of  course. 

Rose. 

[Hysterically.]      The    jewelry!    Ha,    ha,    ha!    [Rising.] 
She's  managed  to  get  hold  of  some  of  the  jewelry,  at  any  rate. 

Ann. 
[With  a  sob.]     Yes,  she — she  managed  that. 

Louisa. 

[Mopping  her  face.]      She's  kept  that   from  us  artfully 
enough. 


206  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

Rose. 

[Going  over  to  Ann  and  Louisa,  zvho  rise  to  receive  her.] 
Ha,  ha!     Edward's  "little  bits"  of  jewelry! 

Ann. 
Little  bits! 

Rose. 
They're  little  bits  that  are  left. 

Louisa. 
How  many  did  she  have  of  them,  I  wonder! 

Rose. 
She  shall  be  made  to  restore  them 

Louisa. 
Every  one  of  them. 

Thaddeus. 

No,    no,    no [Stretching   out   a   hand   toiuards   the 

ladies.]  Rosie — Ann — Lou — Phyllis  hadn't  any  of  the 
jewelry — not  a  scrap.  I  put  it  all  back  into  the  safe.  I — 
I  swear  she  hadn't  any  of  it. 

Elkin. 
Why  did  you  do  that  ? 

Thaddeus. 

[Agitatedly.]  Why,  you  see,  Mr.  Elkin,  when  I  carried 
it  up-stairs,  I  found  my  brother  Edward  in  a  state  of  col- 
lapse— a  sort  of  faint 

Elkin. 

[With  a  nod.]     Ah 


act  in]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  207 

Thaddeus. 

And  Phyllis — my  wife — she  sent  me  off  at  once  for  the 
doctor.    It  was  on  the  Wednesday  evening,  you  know 

Vallance. 
{Pricking  up  his  ears.]     Your  wife,  Mr.  Mortimore ? 

Thaddeus. 
It  was  on  the  Wednesday  evening  that  the  change  set  in. 

Vallance. 
[To  Thaddeus.]     Your  wife  sent  you  off  at  once ? 

Thaddeus. 
[To  Vallance.]    To  fetch  the  doctor. 

Vallance. 

[Raising  his  eyebrows.]     Oh,  Mrs.  Mortimore  was  in  the 
house  while  all  this  was  going  on? 

Thaddeus. 

Y-yes;   she   was    left    in    charge    of    him — in    charge    of 
Ned 

Elkin. 

[To  Vallance,  in  explanation.]     To  allow  these  other 
ladies  to  rest,  preparatory  to  their  taking  charge  later. 

Thaddeus. 
Yes. 

Vallance. 
I  hadn't  gathered 


208  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

James. 

[Who  had  been  sitting  glaring  i  ito  space,  thoughtfully.] 
Hold  hard.  [To  Thaddeus.]  You  didn't  go  for  the  doc- 
tor. 

Thaddeus. 

Yes,  I — I  went 

Stephen. 

[Awakening  from  his  trance.]      Phyllis  sent  the  cook  for 
the  doctor. 

Thaddeus. 

Yes,  yes;  you're  quite  right.  The  cook  was  the  first  to 
go 

Elkin. 

[To  Thaddeus.]    You  followed? 

Thaddeus. 
I  followed. 

James. 

[Knitting  his  brows.]  It  must  have  been  a  good  time 
afterwards. 

Thaddeus. 

Y-yes,  perhaps  it  was. 

James. 

I  was  at  Dr.  Oswald's  when  the  woman  arrived.  The 
doctor  was  out,  and 

Vallance. 
[To  Thaddeus.]     You  said  your  wife  sent  you  at  once. 


act  m]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  209 

Thaddeus. 

Told  me  to  go  at  once.    There — there  was  the  jewelry  to 
put  back  into  the  safe 

Vallance. 

[Eyeing  Thaddeus.]     What  time  was  it  when  you  got 
to  the  doctor's? 

Thaddeus. 

Oh — ten,  I  should  say — or  a  quarter-past. 

James. 

[Shaking  his  head.]      No.     I  sat  there,  waiting  for  Dr. 
Oswald  to  come  in 

Stephen. 

[To  Thaddeus.]     Besides,  that  couldn't  have  been;  you 
were  with  me  then. 

James. 

[To  Stephen.]     Was  he? 

Stephen. 

Why,  yes ;  he  and  I  were  at  the  Nurses'  Home  in  Wharton 
Street  from  half-past  nine  till  ten. 

James. 
Half-past  nine ? 

Stephen. 

[Becoming  more  confident  as  he  proceeds.]     And  we  never 
left  each  other  till  we  went  back  to  Cannon  Row. 

Vallance. 
Let  us  understand  this 


210  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

PONTING. 

[Who    has   gradually   revived,    eagerly.]      Yes — yes — [to 
the  ladies.]     Sssh! 

Stephen. 

And,  what's  more,  we  allowed  ourselves  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  to  walk  to  Wharton  Street. 

James. 
[Quietly,  looking  round.]      Hallo ! 

Thaddeus. 

It — it's  evident  that  I — that  I'm  mistaken  in  thinking  that 
I — that  I  went  to  Dr.  Oswald's 

Vallance. 
Mistaken  ? 

Thaddeus. 

I — I  suppose  that,  as  the  woman  had  already  gone,  I — 

I    considered    it — wasn't    necessary [To    Elkin    and 

Vallance,  passing  his   hand  before  his  eyes.]      You  must 
excuse  my  stupidity,  gentlemen. 

Vallance. 

[To  Thaddeus,  distrustfully.]  Then,  according  to  your 
brother  Stephen,  Mr.  Mortimore,  you  were  in  Cannon  Row, 
on  the  occasion  of  this  particular  visit,  no  longer  than  from 
nine  o'clock  till  a  quarter-past? 

Stephen. 

Not  so  long,  because  we  met,  by  arrangement,  at  a 
quarter-past  nine,  in  the  hall  of  the  Grand  Hotel 


act  in]  THE  THVNDERB6LT 


211 


James. 

The  hotel's  six  or  seven  minutes'  walk  from  Cannon 
Row 

Ponting. 
Quite,  quite. 

Thaddeus. 

[A  little  ivildly.]  I  said  I  called  in  at  Cannon  Row  at 
about  nine  o'clock.  It  may  have  been  half-past  eight;  it  may 
have  been  eight 

James. 

Ann  and  Lou  didn't  leave  Cannon  Row  till  past  eight 


Louisa. 

[Standing,  with  Ann  and  Rose,   by  the  tea-table.]      It 

had  gone  eight 

James. 

I  walked  'em  round  to  the  Grand 


Stephen. 
The  three  of  us  walked  with  them  to  the  Grand ! 

Louisa. 

All  three 

James. 
So  we  did. 

Stephen. 

[Excitedly.]     And  then  Thaddeus  went  off  to  the  Clar- 
ence Hospital  with  a  note  from  Dr.  Oswald 

James. 
By  George,  yes! 


ai2  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  m 

Stephen. 

I   left   him  opposite   the   Exchange — it   must  have   been 

nearly  half-past  eight  then ! 

[James  rises.     The  ladies  draw  nearer  to  the  dining- 
table. 

Thaddeus. 

Ah,  but  I  didn't  go  to  the  hospital — I  didn't  go  to  the 
hospital 

Stephen. 

[Rising.]     Yes,  you  did.    You  brought  a  note  back  from 
the  hospital,  for  us  to  take  to  Wharton  Street 

Vallance. 

[To  Elkin.]    How  far  is  the  Clarence  Hospital  from  the 
Exchange  ? 

Elkin. 
A  ten  minutes'  drive.    It's  on  the  other  side  of  the  water. 

Thaddeus. 
I — I — I'd  forgotten  the  hospital 


James. 
[Scowling  at  Thaddeus.]     Forgotten ? 

Thaddeus. 

I — I — I   mean    I — I   thought   the  hospital   came  later — 
after  I'd  been  to  Wharton  Street 

James. 

[Going  to  VALLANCE  and  tapping  him  on  the  shoulder.] 
Mr.  Vallance 


act  in]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  213 

Thaddeus. 

I — I  must  have  gone  to  Cannon  Row  between  my  return 
from  the  hospital  and  my  meeting  Stephen  at  the  Grand 

James. 

[To   Elkin  and  Vallance.]      Why,  he  couldn't  have 
done  it,  gentlemen 

PONTING. 

Impossible ! 

Stephen. 

It's  obvious;  he  couldn't  have  done  it. 

Thaddeus. 
I — I  was  only  a  few  minutes  at  the  hospital 

Elkin. 

[Scribbling   on   the   back   of  a  document.]      Oh,  yes,  he 
could  have  done  it — barely 

Vallance. 

[Making  a  mental  calculation.]     Assuming  that  he  left 
his  brother  at  the  Exchange  at  eight-twenty 

Elkin. 
Ten  minutes  to  the  hospital. 

Vallance. 
If  he  drove  there 

Thaddeus. 
I  did  drive — I  did  drive 

PONTING. 

[Who   is  also  figuring  it   out   on  paper.]      Ten   minutes 
back 


214  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

Elkin. 
Ten  minutes  at  the  hospital 


PONTING. 

Eight-fifty 

Thaddeus. 

Eight-fifty  in  Cannon  Row!     That  was  it — that  was  it, 

Mr.  Elkin 

James. 

Give  him  twenty  minutes  in  Cannon  Row — give  it  him! 
He  couldn't  have  done  all  he  says  he  did  in  the  time,  gentle- 
men  

Stephen. 

He  couldn't  have  done  it 


Ponting. 
Impossible ! 

Elkin. 

[To  Ponting.]     No,  no,  please — not  impossible. 

Vallance. 

[To  Stephen.]  When  you  met  Mr.  Thaddeus  Morti- 
more — you — when  you  met  him  in  the  hall  of  the  Grand 
Hotel,  before  starting  for  Wharton  Street,  did  he  say  any- 
thing to  you  as  to  his  having  just  called  at  the  house ? 

Stephen. 
No. 

Vallance. 

Nothing  as  to  an  alarming  change  in  your  brother's  con- 
dition ? 

Stephen. 
Not  a  syllable. 


act  in]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  215 

James. 

[To  Elkin  and  Vallance.]     Oh,  there's  a  screw  loose 
here,  gentlemen,  surely? 

Stephen. 

[Joining    James.]      That    is    most    extraordinary,    Mr. 
Vallance — isn't  it?     Not  a  syllable! 

[Ann  and  Louisa  join  their  husbands  and  the  jour 
gather  round  Elkin  and  Vallance.  Rose  stands 
behind  Ponting's  chair. 

Thaddeus. 

You    see — Edward — Edward    had    rallied    before    I    left 
Cannon  Row.     He — he'd  fallen  into  a  nice,  quiet  sleep 

James. 

All  in  twenty  minutes,  gentlemen — twenty  minutes  at  the 
outside! 

Vallance. 

[To  Thaddeus.]     Mr.  Mortimore 

Ann. 

I  remember 

Ponting. 

[To  Ann.]     Hold  your  tongue! 

Vallance. 

Mr.  Mortimore,  who  let  you  into  the  house  in  Cannon 
Row  on  the  night  of  June  the  nineteenth ? 

Ponting. 

Ah,  yes 

Vallance. 

At  any  time  between  the  hours  of  eight  o'clock ? 


2i6  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

Stephen. 
And  eleven. 

Elkin. 

[To  Thaddeus.]  Who  gave  you  admittance — which  of 
the  servants? 

Thaddeus. 

I — I  can't — I  don't — [blankly,  addressing  Vallance] 
was  it  the — the  butler ? 

Vallance. 

No,  no;  I  ask  you.  [To  Elkin,  who  nods  in  reply.] 
Have  you  the  servants'  addresses? 

Thaddeus. 

But  you  wouldn't — you  wouldn't  trust  to  the  servants' 
memories  as  to — as  to  which  of  them  opened  the  front  door 
to  me  a  month  ago!  [With  an  atternpt  at  a  laugh.]  It's 
ridiculous ! 

Elkin. 

[Reprovingly.]     Ah,  now,  now,  Mr.  Mortimore ! 

Thaddeus. 

[Starting  up  from  the  table.]  Oh,  it  isn't  fair — it  isn't 
fair  of  you  to  badger  me  like  this ;  it  isn't  fair ! 

Vallance. 

Nobody  desires  to  "badger"  you 

Thaddeus. 

Trip  me  up,  then — confuse  me.  [At  the  left-hand  end  of 
the  table,  clutching  the  back  of  a  chair.]  The  will — the 
will's  the  main  point — Ned's  will.  What  does  it  matter — 
what  can  it  matter,  to  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  so — when 
I  was  in  Cannon  Row,  or  how  long  I  was  there?     One 


act  in]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  217 

would  think,  by  the  way  I'm  being  treated,  gentlemen,  that 
I'd  something  to  gain  by  this,  instead  of  everything  to  lose 
— everything  to  lose! 

James. 

[Coming  forward,  on  the  further  side  of  the  table.]  Don't 
you  whine  about  what  you've  got  to  lose ! 

Stephen. 
[Joining  him.]     What  about  us! 

The  Ladies. 
Us! 

PONTING. 

[Hitting  the  table.]     Yes,  confound  you! 

Vallance. 

Colonel  Ponting ! 

Elkin. 

[To  James  and  Stephen.]  It  seems  to  me — if  my  friend 
Mr.  Vallance  will  allow  me  to  say  so — that  you  are  really 
bearing  a  little  hardly  on  your  brother  Thaddeus. 

Thaddeus. 
[Gratefully.]     Thank  you,  Mr.  Elkin. 

Elkin. 

What  reason — what  possible  reason  can  there  be  for  doubt- 
ing his  good  faith? 

Thaddeus. 
Thank  you. 

Elkin. 

Here  is  a  man  who  forfeits  a  considerable  sum  of  money, 
and  deliberately  places  himself  in  peril,  in  order  to  right  a 
wrong  which  nobody  on  earth  would  have  suspected  him  of 


2i8  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

committing.     Mr.  Mortimore  is  accusing  himself  of  a  serious 
offense,  not  defending  himself  from  it. 

Vallance. 

[Obstinately.]  What  we  beg  of  Mr.  Mortimore  to  do, 
for  the  sake  of  all  parties,  is  to  clear  up  certain  inconsistencies 
in  his  story  with  his  brothers'  account  of  his  movements  and 
conduct  on  this  Wednesday  evening.  We  are  entitled  to 
ask  that. 

James. 
Aye — entitled. 

Stephen  and  Ponting. 
Entitled. 

Elkin. 

[To  James  and  Stephen.]  Yes,  and  Mr.  Mortimore  is 
equally  entitled  to  refuse  it. 

James,  Stephen  and  Ponting. 
[Indignantly.]      Oh ! 

Thaddeus. 
But  I — I  haven't  refused.     I — I've  done  my  best 

Elkin. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  he  has  no  objection  to  her  doing  so, 
the  person  to  assist  you,  I  suggest — distressing  as  it  may  be 
to  her — is  the  wife. 

Vallance. 

[dssentingly.]      The  wife 

[Thaddeus  pushes  aside  the  chair  which  he  is  holding 
and  comes  to  the  table. 

Elkin. 

She  ought  to  be  able  to  satisfy  you  as  to  what  time  he 
was  with  her 


act  m]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  219 

Vallance. 

[To  everybody. 1  By-the-bye,  has  she  ever  mentioned  this 
visit  of  her  husband's  to  Cannon  Row ? 

Ann  and  Louisa. 

Never — never 

Elkin. 

Attaching  no  importance  to  it.     But  now 

Thaddeus. 

[Stretching  out  a  quivering  hand  to  them  all.]  No.  No, 
no.  Don't  you — don't  you  drag  my  wife  into  this.  I — I 
won't  have  my  wife  dragged  into  this 

James. 
[In  a  blaze.]     Why  not? 

Stephen. 
Why  not? 

The  Ladies. 

[Indignantly.]     Ah ! 

Thaddeus. 
You — you  leave  my  wife  out  of  it 

James. 

[To    Thaddeus,    furiously.]       Who    the    hell's    your 

wife ! 

Elkin  and  Vallance. 

Gentlemen — gentlemen 


Louisa. 

Who's  Phyllis ! 

Ann. 
Who's  she ! 


220  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

Rose. 
Ha! 

James  and  Stephen. 

[Derisively.]     Ha,  ha,  ha! 

Thaddeus. 

Anyhow,  I  do  object — I  do  object  to  your  dragging  her 
into  it — [his  show  of  courage  flickering  away]  I — I  do 
object — [coming  to  the  nearer  side  of  the  table,  rather  un- 
steadily] Mr.  Elkin — Mr.  Vallance — I — I  don't  think  I  can 

be  of  any  further  assistance  to  you  to-day 

[Vallance  shrugs  his  shoulders  at  Elkin. 

Elkin. 

[To  Thaddeus,  kindly.]  One  minute — one  minute  more. 
Mr.  Vallance  has  taken  down  your  statement  roughly.  [To 
Vallance.]  If  you'll  read  us  your  notes,  Mr.  Vallance, 
Mr.  Mortimore  will  tell  us  whether  they  are  substantially 
correct — [to  Thaddeus]  perhaps  he  will  even  be  willing  to 

attach  his  name  to  them 

[With  a  nod  of  patient  acquiescence,  Thaddeus  sinks 
into  the  middle  chair.  Vallance  prepares  to  read 
his  notes,  first  making  some  additions  to  them. 

James. 

[To  Thaddeus,  from  the  other  side  of  the  table.]  Look 
here ! 

Thaddeus. 

[Feebly.]  No — no  more  questions.  I — I'm  advised  I — I 
may  refuse 

James. 

Mr.  Vallance  asked  you  just  now  about  your  con- 
science  


act  m]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  221 

Thaddeus. 
I — I'm  not  going  to  answer  any  more  questions 

Stephen. 
[To  James.]     It  was  Mr.  Elkin 

James. 
I  don't  care  a  curse  which  it  was ■ 

Thaddeus. 

No  more  questions 

James. 

[Leaning  across  the  table  towards  Thaddeus,  fiercely.] 
When  the  devil  did  your  conscience  begin  to  prick  you  over 
this?    Hey? 

Stephen. 

[To  Thaddeus.]  Yes,  you've  been  in  excellent  spirits 
apparently  this  last  month — excellent  spirits. 

James. 
[Hammering  on  the  table.]      Hey? 

Stephen. 

[To  Elkin  and  Vallance.]  There  was  no  sign  of  any- 
thing amiss  when  we  were  with  him  this  afternoon,  gentle- 
men— none  whatever,  I  give  you  my  word. 

James. 
Less  than  two  hours  ago — not  a  symptom ! 

Stephen. 

[To  James.]  He  was  gay  enough  at  the  club  dinner  on 
Tuesday  night.     It  was  remarked — commented  on. 


222  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

Louisa. 

[At  Stephen's  elbow,  unconsciously.]     It's  Phyllis  who's 
been  ill  all  the  month,  not  Thaddeus. 

James. 

[In  the  same  way,  with  a  hoarse  laugh.]     Ha!     If  it  had 
been  his  precioM  wife  who'd  come  to  us  and  told  us  this 

tale 

Stephen. 

Yes,  if  it  had  been  the  lady 


James. 

If  it  had  been [Struck  by  the  idea  which  occurs  to 

him,  James  breaks  off.     Thaddeus  doesn't  stir.     James, 
after  a  pause,  thoughtfully.]     If  it  had  been 

Stephen. 
[Holding  his  breath,  to  James.]      Eh? 

James. 

[Slowly  stroking  his  beard.]      One  might  have — under- 
stood it 

Elkin. 

[Who   has  been  listening  attentively,  in  a  tone  of  polite 
interest.]     How  long  has  Mrs.  Mortimore  been  indisposed? 

James. 
[Disturbed.]     Oh — er — a  few  weeks 

Vallance. 
[Quietly.]     Ever  since ? 

James. 
[With  a  nod.]     Aye. 

[Elkin  and  Vallance  look  at  each  other  inquiringly. 


act  in]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  223 

Stephen. 

[Staring  into  space.]     Ever  since — Edward — as  a  matter 

of  fact 

Rose. 

[Going  to  Ann  and  Louisa.]     What's  wrong  with  her? 
What's  wrong  with  his  wife? 

Ann. 
[Obtusely.]      She's  not  sleeping. 

Louisa. 

[Looking  from  one  to  the  other.~\     No — she  isn't 


[  There  is  a  further  pause,  and  then  Thaddeus,  slowly 
turning  from  the  table,  rises. 

Thaddeus. 

[In  a  strange  voice,  his  hands  fumbling  at  the  buttons  of 
his  jacket.]  Well,  gentlemen — whatever  my  sins  are — I — 
I  decline  to  sit  still  and  hear  my  wife  insulted  in  this  style. 
If  it's  all  the  same  to  you,  I'll  call  round  on  Mr.  Vallance 

in  the  morning  and — and  sign  the  paper 

[While  Thaddeus  is  speaking,  James  and  Stephen 
come  forward  on  the  left,  Elkin  and  Vallance  on 
the  right.  The  three  women  get  together  at  the 
back  and  look  on  with  wide-open  eyes.  The  move- 
ment is  made  gradually  and  noiselessly,  so  that  when 
Thaddeus  turns  to  go  he  is  startled  at  finding  his 
way  obstructed.  After  a  time  PoNTlNG  also  leaves 
the  table,  watching  the  proceedings,  with  a  falling 
jaw,  from  a  little  distance  on  the  right. 

Elkin. 

[Rubbing  his  chin  meditatively,  to  THADDEUS.]  Mr. 
Mortimore,  your  wife  traveled  with  you  and  the  other  mem- 
bers of  the  family  to  Linchpool  on  the  Tuesday ? 


224  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

James. 
Aye,  she  was  with  us 


Elkin. 

[To  Thaddeus.]  She  was  in  the  railway  carriage  when 
the — when  the  discussion  arose ? 

Stephen. 

Yes,  yes 

Elkin. 

The  discussion  as  to  where  a  man's  money  goes,  in  the 
absence  of  a  will? 

Ann. 

[From  the  other  side  of  the  table.]     Yes 

Louisa. 
[Close  to  Ann.]     Of  course  she  was. 

Elkin. 

[Nodding.]  H'm.  [To  Thaddeus.]  I — I  am  most 
anxious  not  to  pain  you  unnecessarily.  Er — the  conversa- 
tion you  had  with  your  brother  Edward  at  the  bedside,  in 
reference  to  Mrs.  Thaddeus  Mortimore — when  he  said  that 

he — that  he 

James. 

[Breathing  heavily.]     He'd  taken  a  fancy  to  her 

Elkin. 

That  he  wished  to  make  her  a  present  of  jewelry — she 
was  within  hearing  during  that  talk? 

Thaddeus. 

[Avoiding  everybody's  gaze,  his  hands  twitching  invol- 
untarily at  his  side.]     She — she  may  have  been. 


act  in]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  225 

Elkin. 
[Piercingly.]     He  was  left  in  her  charge,  you  know. 

Thaddeus. 
She — she  was  moving  about  the  room 

Elkin. 
She  would  scarcely  have  been  far  away  from  him. 

Thaddeus. 

[Moistening  his  lips  with  his  tongue.]     N-no. 

Elkin. 

And  when  he  handed  you  his  keys  and  asked  you  to  go 
down-stairs  and  open  the  safe — did  she  hear  and  witness 
that  also? 

Thaddeus. 

She — she — very  likely. 

Elkin. 

[Raising  his  voice.]  There  was  nothing  at  all  confiden- 
tial in  this  transaction  between  you  and  your  brother? 

Thaddeus. 

Why — why  should  there  have  been? 

Elkin. 

Why  should  there  have  been?  [Coming  a  step  nearer  to 
him.]  So  that,  feeling  towards  her  as  he  did,  there  was  no 
reason  why,  if  you  hadn't  chanced  to  be  on  the  spot — there 
was  no  reason  why  he  shouldn't  have  held  that  conversation 
with  her,  and  intrusted  her  with  the  keys. 

Thaddeus. 

She — she  was  almost  a  stranger  to  him.  He — he  hadn't 
seen  her  since  she  was  a  child 


226  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

Elkin. 

[Interrupting  him.]     Tell  us — this  illness  of  Mrs.  Morti- 

more's ? 

Thaddeus. 

My — my  wife's  a  nervous,  delicate  woman — always  has 

been 

Elkin. 

[Nodding.]     Quite  so. 

Thaddeus. 

She — she  was  upset  at  being  alone  with  Edward  when  he 
— when  he  swooned 

James. 
That  was  the  tale 

Elkin. 

[To  Thaddeus.]  Although  you  happened  to  be  in  the 
library,  a  floor  or  two  below,  at  the  time? 

Thaddeus. 

He — he  might  have  died  suddenly,  in  her  arms.  She's  a 
nervous,  sensitive  woman 

Elkin. 

[Nodding.]  And  she's  been  unwell  ever  since.  [With 
an  abrupt  change  of  manner.]  Mr.  Mortimore,  how  is  the 
lock  of  the  safe  opened? 

Thaddeus. 

Opened ? 

Elkin. 

[Sharply.]  The  safe  in  the  library  in  Cannon  Row — 
how  do  you  open  it?  [Thaddeus  is  silent.]  Is  it  a  simple 
lock,  or  is  there  anything  unusual  about  it? 


act  in]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  227 

Thaddeus. 
He — he  gave  me  directions  how  to  open  it. 

Elkin. 

Tell*  us 

Thaddeus. 

I — I  forget 

Elkin. 
Forget? 

Thaddeus. 

It — it's  gone  from  me 


James. 

[In    a    low    voice.]      Gentlemen,    you    couldn't    forget 

that 

Stephen. 

[In  the  same  way.]    You  couldn't  forget  it. 

Elkin. 

[To  Thaddeus,  solemnly.]  Mr.  Mortimore,  are  you 
sure  that  the  conversation  at  the  bedside  didn't  take  place 
between  your  brother  and  your  wife  solely,  and  that  it  wasn't 
she  who  was  sent  down-stairs  to  fetch  the  jewelry? 

Thaddeus. 

[Drawing  himself  up,  with  a  last  effort.]     Sure ! 

Elkin. 
Are  you  positive  that  she  didn't  open  the  safe? 

Thaddeus. 

It — it's  ridiculous 

Elkin. 

[Quickly.]  When  you  took  her  to  Roper's,  the  draper's, 
on  the  Thursday — you  left  her  there  ? 


228  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

Thaddeus. 
Yes,  I — I  left  her 

Elkin. 

Are  you  sure  that  she  didn't  then  go  on  to  the  bridge, 
and  tear  up  the  will,  and  throw  the  pieces  into  the  river? 

Thaddeus. 
I — I  decline  to  answer  any  more  questions 


Elkin. 

[Raising  his  voice  again.]  Were  you  in  Cannon  Row, 
sir,  on  the  night  of  June  the  nineteenth,  for  a  single  moment 
between  eight  o'clock  and  eleven ? 

Thaddeus. 

[Losing  his  head  completely.]  Ah!  Ah!  I  know — I 
know!     You  mean  to  drag  my  wife  into  this ! 

Elkin. 

[To  Thaddeus.]  You  were  late  in  coming  here  this 
afternoon,  Mr.  Mortimore 

Thaddeus. 

[To  Elkin,  threateningly.]     Don't  you — don't  you  dare 

to  do  it ! 

Elkin. 

Owing,  you  say,  to  your  having  made  a  communication  to 
Mrs.  Mortimore  about  this  affair 

Thaddeus. 

[Clinging  to  the  chair  which  is  behind  him.]  You — you 
leave  my  wife  out  of  it ! 


act  m]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  229 

Elkin. 

Are  you  sure  that  you  were  not  delayed  through  having 
to  receive  a  communication  from  her ? 

Thaddeus. 

[Dropping  into  the  chair.]     Don't  you — drag  her — into 

it ! 

Elkin. 

Are  you  sure  that  the  story  you  have  told  us,  substituting 
yourself  for  the  principal  person  of  that  story,  is  not  exactly 
the  story  which  she  has  just  told  you?  [There  is  a  pause. 
Ponting  goes  to  Rose.]     Mr.  Vallance 

Vallance. 
Yes? 

Elkin. 

I  propose  to  see  Mrs.  Mortimore  in  this  matter,  without 
delay. 

Vallance. 
Very  good. 

Elkin. 

Will  you ? 

Vallance. 
Certainly. 

[Quietly,  Vallance  returns  to  the  table  and,  seating 
himself,  again  collects  his  papers.  Elkin  is  following 
him. 

James. 

Mr.  Elkin 

Elkin. 

[Stopping.]     Eh? 

James. 

Stealing  a  will — destroying  a  will — what  is  it? 


250  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  in 

Elkin. 
What  is  it? 

James. 

The  law — what's  the  law ? 

Elkin. 

[To  James.]  I — I'm  sorry  to  have  to  say,  sir — it's  a 
felony. 

Thaddeus. 

[With  a  look  of  horror.]     Oh ! 

[Ann  and  Louisa  come  to  James  and  Stephen  hur- 
riedly. Elkin  sits  beside  Vallance,  and,  picking 
up  their  bags  from  the  floor,  they  put  away  their 
papers. 

James. 

[Standing  over  Thaddeus.]  Well!  Are  yer  proud  of 
her  now? 

Stephen. 

This  is  what  his  marriage  has  ended  in! 

Louisa. 
I'm  not  in  the  least  surprised. 

Ann. 
Old  Burdock's  daughter! 

Rose. 

[From  the  other  side  of  the  table.]  Thank  heaven,  my 
name  isn't  Mortimore! 

Thaddeus. 

[Leaping  to  his  feet  in  a  frenzy.]  Don't  you  touch  her! 
Don't  any  of  you  touch  her!  Don't  you  harm  a  hair  of  her 
head!  [To  the  group  on  the  left.]  You've  helped  to  bring 
this  on  her!     You've  helped  to  make  her  life  unendurable! 


act  m]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  231 

You've  helped  to  bring  her  to  this!  She's  been  a  good  wife 
to  me.  Oh,  my  God,  let  me  get  her  away!  [Turning 
towards  the  door.]  Mr.  Elkin — Mr.  Vallance — do  let  me 
get  her  away!  Don't  you  harm  a  hair  of  her  head!  Don't 
you  touch  her!  [At  the  door.]  She's  been  a  good  wife  to 
me!  [Opening  the  door  and  disappearing.]  She's  been  a 
good  wife  to  me ! 

James. 

[Moving  over  to  the  right,  shouting  after  Thaddeus.] 
Been  a  good  wife  to  you,  has  she! 

Stephen. 

[Also  moving  to  the  right.]  A  disgrace — a  disgrace  to 
the  family. 

Louisa. 

[Following  Stephen.]     I  always  said  so — I  said  so  till 

I  was  tired 

James. 

We've  helped  to  bring  her  to  this! 

Ann. 

[Sitting  in  a  chair  on  the  nearer  side  of  the  dining-table .~\ 
A  vile  creature! 

Ponting. 

[Coming  forward  on  the  left  with  Rose.]  Damn  the 
woman!  Damn  the  woman!  My  position  is  a  cruel 
one 

Stephen. 

[Raising  his  arms  as  he  paces  the  room  on  the  right.] 
Here's  a  triumph  for  Hammond! 


232  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

James. 
[To  Ponting,  contemptuously.]     Your  position ! 

Louisa. 
Nellie  Robson's  got  the  better  of  me  now. 

Ponting. 

[To  James.]      I'm  landed  with  an  enormous  house  in 
Carlos  Place — my  builders  are  in  it 

Rose. 

[Pacing  the  room  on  the  left.]     Oh,  we're  in  a  shocking 
scrape!    We're  up  to  our  necks ! 

James. 

[Approaching    Ponting.]      D'ye    think   you're   the    only 

sufferer ! 

Stephen. 

[Wildly.]      A  triumph  for   Hammond!     A  triumph   for 
Hammond! 

James. 

[To  Ponting.]     I've  bought  all  that  dirt  at  the  bottom 
of  Gordon  Street — acres  of  it ! 

Ponting. 

[Passing  him   and  walking  aivay   to  the  right.]      That's 
your  business. 

Stephen. 

[Now,  with   LOUISA,  at  the  further  side  of  the  dining- 
table.]     Hammond  and  his  filthy  rag! 


act  in]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  233 

James. 

[Going  after  Ponting,  in  a  fury.]     Aye,  it  is  my  busi- 
ness  

Ponting. 

[Turning  upon  him  viciously.]      I  wish  to  God,  sir,  I'd 
never  seen  or  heard  of  you,  or  your  family. 

Rose. 
[Coming  forward.]     Oh,  Toby,  don't ! 

James. 
[To  Ponting.]     You  wish  that,  do  yer ! 

Ann. 

[Rising  and  putting   herself  between   James  and  PoNT- 

ing.]     James ! 

Stephen. 

[Shaking  his  fists  in  the  air.]     Blast  Hammond  and  his 
filthy  rag. 

James. 

[To  Ponting.]     You  patronizing  little  pauper ! 

Rose. 

[To    James.]      Don't    you    speak    to    my    husband    like 

that ! 

Ponting. 

You're  a  pack  of  low,  common  people ! 

Rose. 

[Going  to  Ponting.]      He's  the  only  gentleman  among 
you. 


234  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

James. 
The  only  gentleman  among  us ! 

Stephen. 

[Coming  forward,  with  Louisa,  on  the  left.]  The  only 
gentleman ! 

James. 

We  could  have  done  without  such  a  gentleman  in  our 
family — [to  Ann,  who  is  forcing  him,  coaxingly,  towards 
the  left]  hey,  mother? 

Stephen. 

[Advancing  to  Ponting,  still  followed  by  Louisa.]  Ex- 
ceedingly well — exceedingly  well 

Louisa. 
[Taking  Stephen's  arm.]     Don't  lower  yourself ! 

James. 

[Over  Ann's  shoulder.]  The  Colonel  never  came  near 
us  the  other  day  till  he  saw  a  chance  o'  picking  up  the 
pieces ! 

Stephen. 

Nor  Rose  either — neither  of  them  did! 

James. 
It's  six  o'  one  and  half  a  dozen  o'  the  other! 

Rose. 
[To  James  and  Stephen.]     Oh,  you  cads,  you  boys ! 


• 


act  m]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  235 

James. 

[Mockingly.]  Didn't  they  bustle  down  to  Linchpool  in 
a  hurry  then!     Ha,  ha,  ha! 

Stephen. 

[Waving  his  hand  in  Ponting's  face.]  This  serves  you 
right,  Colonel;  this  serves  you  right. 

Rose.. 

[Leading  Ponting  towards  the  door.]  Don't  notice  them 
— don't  notice  them— — 

James. 

[Walking  about  on  the  left,  to  Ann.]  I'm  in  a  mess, 
mother;  I'm  in  a  dreadful  mess! 

Stephen. 

[Sinking  into  a  chair  by  the  tea-table.]  On  I  go  at  the 
broken-down  rat-hole  in  King  Street ;  on  I  go  with  my  worn- 
out  old  plant ! 

[On  getting  to  the  door,  Ponting  discovers  that  Elkin 
and  Vallance  have  taken  their  departure.  He  re- 
turns, with  Rose,  to  the  further  side  of  the  dining- 
table. 

Ann. 

[To  James.]     You  must  get  rid  of  your  contract,  James. 

James. 
Who'll  take  it — who'll  take  it ! 


Stephen. 
I've  always  been  behind  the  times- 


236  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

Louisa. 
Nelly  will  laugh  her  teeth  out  of  her  head 

PONTING. 

[To  James  and  Stephen,  trying  to  attract  their  atten- 
tion.]    Mortimore — Mortimore 

Ann. 
[To  James.]     It's  splendid  land,  isn't  it? 

James. 
Nobody's  been  ass  enough  to  touch  it  but  me ! 

Stephen. 

[Rocking  himself  to  and  fro.]     Always  behind  the  times 
— no  need  to  tell  me  that 

Ponting. 

[To  James.]     Mortimore 

James. 
[To  Ponting.]     What? 

Ponting. 
[Pointing  to  the  empty  chairs.]     They've  gone 

James. 

[Sobering  down.]      Hooked  it 

Stephen. 
[Looking  round.]     Gone ? 


act  in]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  237 

Tames. 
Elkin 

Stephen. 
[Weakly.]     And  Vallance 


James. 
They  might  have  had  the  common  civility 

PONTING. 

[Coming  forward  slowly  and  dejectedly.]     They've  gone 
to  that  woman 

Rose. 

[At  the  further  side  of  the  table.]     I  hope  they  send  her 

to  jail — the  trull — the  baggage ! 

[Ann  and  Louisa  join  Rose. 

PONTING. 

The  whole  business  will  be  settled  between  'em  in  ten 
minutes — the  whole  business 

James. 
[Coming  to  Pontinc]     Aye,  the  whole  concern. 

Stephen. 
[Who  has  risen,  holding  his  head.]     Oh,  it's  awful! 

PONTING. 

[Laying  a  hand  on  James  and  Stephen  zvho  are  on 
either  side  of  him.]  My  friends,  don't  let  us  disagree — we're 
all  in  the  same  boat 


238  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  hi 

James. 

[Grimly,  looking  into  space.]     Aye,  they'll  be  talking  it 
over  nicely 

PONTING. 

Let  us  stick  to  each  other.     Aren't  we  throwing  up  the 
sponge  prematurely ? 

James. 

[Not  heeding  him.]     Tad  and  his  wife  and  the  lawyers 
— ha,  ha ! 

Stephen. 

And  that  girl 

James. 
[Nodding.]     The  young  lady. 

PONTING. 

What  girl  ? 

Stephen. 
Miss  Thornhill. 

PONTING. 

Thornhill ? 

James. 

She's  staying  with  'em. 

PONTING. 

She  is! 

Rose. 

[Coming    forward     on     the    left.]       Staying    with    the 
Tads ? 

PONTING. 

In  their  house !    Elkin  and  Vallance  will  find  her  there ! 

James. 
[Nodding.]     Aye. 


act  in]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  239 

PONTING. 

[Violently. ]      It's  a  conspiracy ? 


James. 

Conspiracy ? 

Ponting. 

I  see  it!  The  Thornhill  girl's  in  it!  She's  at  the  bot- 
tom of  it!  [Going  to  Rose  as  Ann  and  Louisa  come  for- 
ward on  the  left.  )  They're  cheating  us — they're  cheating 
us.  I  tell  you  we  ought  to  be  present.  They're  robbing 
us  behind  our  backs 

Stephen. 
[Looking  at  James.]     Jim ? 

James. 
[Shaking  his  head.]     No,  it's  no  conspiracy 

Ponting. 

It  is!    They're  robbing  us ! 

Stephen. 
[To  James.]     Still,  I — I  really  think 

Ponting. 
Behind  our  backs! 

The  Ladies. 

Yes — yes — yes 

James. 

[After  a  pause,  quietly,  stroking  his  beard.]     By  George, 

we'll  go  down ! 

[Instantly  they  all  make  for  the  door. 

Stephen. 
We'll  be  there  as  soon  as  Elkin 


240  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  in 

PONTING. 

A  foul  conspiracy ! 

Ann. 
[In  the  rear.]     Wait  till  I  put  on  my  hat 

Rose. 
Jim,  you  follow  with  Ann. 

PONTING. 

[To  Stephen.]    We'll  go  on  ahead. 

Stephen. 
Yes,  we'll  go  first. 

Louisa. 
I'm  ready. 

James. 
No,  no;  we'll  all  go  together. 

PONTING. 

Robbing  us  behind  our  backs ! 

James. 

Look  sharp,  mother! 

The  Others. 

Be  quick — be  quick — be  quick ! 

[Seizing    Ann    and    pushing    her    before    them,    they 
struggle  through  the  door-way. 

END  OF  THE  THIRD  ACT 


THE  FOURTH  ACT 

The  scene  is  the  same,  in  every  respect,  as  that  of  the  Second 
Act. 

Vallance  is  seated  at  the  writing-table  by  the  bay-window , 
reading  aloud  from  a  written  paper.  Phyllis,  in  deep 
abasement,  is  upon  the  settee  by  the  piano,  and  Thad- 
DEUS  is  standing  by  her,  holding  her  left  hand  in  both  of 
his.  On  the  left  of  the  table  at  the  end  of  the  piano  sits 
Helen,  pale,  calm,  and  erect,  and  opposite  to  her,  in  the 
chair  on  the  other  side  of  the  table,  is  Elkin.  Ponting 
is  sitting  in  the  bay-windoiu,  Stephen  is  standing  upon 
the  hearth-rug,  and  the  rest  of  the  "family"  are  seated 
about  the  room — all  looking  very  humble  and  downcast. 
Ann  and  Louisa  are  upon  the  settee  on  the  right,  Rose 
is  in  the  armchair  on  the  nearer  side  of  the  fireplace, 
James  072  the  ottoman.  Rose,  Ann,  and  Louisa  are 
in  their  outdoor  things. 


Vallance. 

{Reading. ~\  "It  was  broad  daylight  before  my  husband 
and  I  got  back  to  our  lodgings.  The  document  was  then 
in  a  pocket  I  was  wearing  under  my  dress.  Before  going 
to  bed  I  hid  the  pocket  in  a  drawer.  At  about  eleven  o'clock 
on  the  same  morning  my  husband  took  me  to  Roper's,  the 
draper's,  in  Ford  Street,  and  left  me  there.  After  my  meas- 
urements were  taken  I  went  up  Ford  Street  and  on  to  the 
bridge.  I  then  tore  up  both  the  paper  and  the  envelope  and 
dropped  the  pieces  into  the  water." 

241 


242  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  iv 

Elkin. 

[Half  turning  to  Phyllis.]  You  declare  that  that  is 
correct  in  every  particular,  Mrs.  Mortimore? 

[Phyllis  bursts  into  a  paroxysm  of  tears. 

Thaddeus. 

[To  Phyllis,  as  if  comforting  a  child.  ]  All  right,  dear; 
all  right.  I'm  with  you — I'm  with  you.  [She  sobs  help- 
lessly.]    Tell  Mr.  Elkin — tell  him — is  that  correct? 

Phyllis. 

[Through  her  sobs.]     Yes. 

Elkin. 

[To  Phyllis.]     You've  nothing  further  to  say? 

[Her  sobbing  continues. 

Thaddeus. 

[To  Phyllis.]  Have  you  anything  more  to  say,  dear? 
[Encouragingly,  as  she  tries  to  speak.]  I'm  here,  dear — I'm 
with  you.     Is  there  anything — anything  more ? 

Phyllis. 

Only — only  that  I  beg  Miss  Thornhill's  pardon.  I  beg 
her  pardon.     Oh,  I  beg  her  pardon. 

[Elkin  looks  at  Helen,  who,  however,  makes  no  re- 
sponse. 

Thaddeus. 

[To  Phyllis,  glancing  at  the  others.]     And — and 

Phyllis. 

And — and  Ann  and  Jim — and  Stephen — and  Lou — and 
Rose  and  Colonel  Ponting — I  beg  their  pardon — I  beg  their 
pardon. 

[She  sinks  back  upon  the  settee,  and  her  fit  of  weeping 
gradually  exhausts  itself. 


act  iv]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  243 

Thaddeus. 

And  I — and  I,  Mr.  Elkin — I  wish  to  offer  my  apologies 
— my  humble  apologies — to  you  and  Mr.  Vallance — and  to 
everybody — for  what  took  place  this  afternoon  in  my 
brother's  dining-room. 

Elkin. 
[Kindly.]     Perhaps  it  isn't  necessary 

Thaddeus. 

Perhaps  not — but  it's  on  my  mind.  [  To  Elkin  and  Val- 
lance.] I  assure  you  and  Mr.  Vallance — [to  the  others] 
and  I  assure  every  member  of  my  family — that  when  I  went 
away  from  here  I  had  no  intention  of  inventing  the  story  I 
attempted  to  tell  you  at  "Ivanhoe."  It  came  into  my  head 
suddenly — quite  suddenly — on  my  way  to  Claybrook  Road 
— almost  at  the  gate  of  the  house.  I  must  have  been  mad  to 
think  I  could  succeed  in  imposing  on  you  all.  I  believe  I 
was  mad,  gentlemen;  and  that's  my  excuse,  and  I — I  hope 
you'll  accept  it. 

Elkin. 

Speaking  for  myself,  I  accept  it  freely. 

Vallance 
And  I. 

Thaddeus. 

Thank  you — thank  you. 

[He  looks  at  the  others  wistfully,  but  they  are  all  star- 
ing at  the  carpet,  and  they,  too,  make  no  response. 
Then  he  seats  himself  beside  Phyllis  and  again  takes 
her  hand. 

Elkin. 

[After  a  pause.]     Well,  Mr.  Vallance [Vallance 

rises,  the  written  paper  in  his  hand,  and  comes  forward  on 
the  left.]     I  think — [glancing  over  his  shoulder  at  Phyllis] 


244  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  iv 

I  think  that  this  lady  makes  it  perfectly  clear  to  any  reason- 
able person  that  the  document  which  she  abstracted  from  the 
safe  in  Cannon  Row,  and  subsequently  destroyed,  was  the 
late  Mr.  Edward  Mortimore's  will,  and  that  Miss  Thornhill 
was  the  universal  legatee  under  it,  and  was  named  as  the  sole 
executrix.  [Vallance  scats  himself  in  the  chair  on  the  ex- 
treme left.]  As  I  said  in  Mr.  James  Mortimore's  house,  the 
ndvice  I  shall  give  to  Miss  Thornhill  is  that  she  applies  to 
the  Court  for  probate  of  the  substance  and  effect  of  this  will. 

Vallance. 
Upon  an  affidavit  by  Mrs.  Thaddeus  Mortimore ? 

Elkin. 

An  affidavit  disclosing  what  she  has  done  and  verifying  a 
statement  of  the  contents  of  the  will. 

Vallance. 

And  how,  may  I  ask,  are  you  going  to  get  over  your  great 
difficulty? 

Elkin. 

My  great  difficulty ? 


Vallance. 

The  fact  that  Mrs.  Thaddeus  Mortimore  is  unable  to 
swear  that  the  will  was  duly  witnessed. 

PONTING. 

Ah!  {Rising  and  coming  forward,  but  discreetly  keeping 
behind  Helen.]  That  seems  to  me  to  be  insuperable — in- 
superable.    [Anxiously.]     Eh,  Mr.  Vallance? 

Stephen. 

[Advancing  a  step  or  two.]  An  obstacle  which  cannot  be 
got  over. 


act  iv]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  245 

PONTING. 

[Eyeing  Helen  furtively.}  It — ah — may  appear  rather 
ungracious  to  Miss  Thornhill — a  young  lady  we  hold  in  the 
highest  esteem — and  to  whom  I  express  regret  for  any  hasty- 
word  I  may  have  used  on  arriving  here — unreserved  regret 
—  [Helen's  eyes  flash,  and  her  shoulders  contract;  otherwise 
she  makes  no  acknowledgment]  it  may  appear  ungracious  to 
Miss  Thornhill  to  discuss  this  point  in  her  presence;  [pulling 
at  his  moustache']  but  she  will  be  the  first  to  recognize  that 
there  are  many — ah — interests  at  stake. 

Stephen. 
Many  interests — many  interests 


PONTING. 

And  where  so  many  interests  are  involved,  one  mustn't — 
ah — allow  oneself  to  be  swayed  by  anything  like  sentiment. 

Stephen. 

[At  the  round  table.]   In  justice,  one  oughtn't  to  be  senti- 
mental. 

PONTING. 

One  daren't  be  sentimental. 

Louisa. 
[Meekly,  raising  her  head.]     I  always  maintain 

Stephen. 
[To  Louisa.]     Yes,  yes,  yes. 

Louisa. 

There  are  two  sides 

Stephen. 
Yes,  yes. 


246  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  iv 

Elkin. 

[Ignoring  the  interruption. ,]  Mrs.  Thaddeus  Mortimore 
is  prepared  to  swear,  Mr.  Vallance,  that  she  believes  there 
were  other  signatures  besides  the  signature  of  the  late  Mr. 
Mortimore. 

Vallance. 

But  she  has  no  recollection  of  the  names  of  witnesses 


None  whatever. 
Not  the  faintest. 


PONTING. 

Stephen. 


Vallance. 
Nor  as  to  whether  there  was  an  attestation  clause  at  all. 

PONTING. 

Her  memory  is  an  utter  blank  as  to  that. 

Stephen. 
An  utter  blank. 

[As  Ponting  and  Stephen  perk  up,  there  is  a  rise  in 
the  spirits  of  the  ladies  at  the  fireplace.  Rose  twists 
her  chair  round  to  face  the  men.     James  doesn't  stir. 

Elkin. 

Notwithstanding  that,  I  can't  help  considering  it  reason- 
ably probable  that,  in  the  circumstances,  the  Court  would 
presume  the  will  to  have  been  made  in  due  form. 

Ponting. 
[Walking  about  agitatedly.]     I  differ. 

Stephen. 
[Walking  about.)     So  do  I. 


act  iv]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  247 

PONTING. 

I  don't  pretend  to  a  profound  knowledge  of  the  law 

Stephen. 

As  a  mere  layman,  /  consider  it  extremely  improbable — 
— extremely  improbable. 

Vallance. 

[To  Stephen  and  Ponting.]     Well,  gentlemen,  there  I 
am  inclined  to  agree  with  you 

Ponting. 

[Pulling  himself  up.]     Ah! 

Stephen. 
[Returning  to  the  round  table.]      Ah! 

Vallance. 

/   think   it   doubtful   whether,   on   the   evidence   of   Mrs. 
Thaddeus  Mortimore,  the  will  could  be  upheld. 

Ponting. 

Exactly.      [To  everybody.]      You've  only  to  look  at  the 
thing  in  the  light  of  common  sense 

Stephen. 

[Argumentatively,  rapping  the  table.]      A  will  exists  or 

it  does  not  exist 

Ponting. 

If  it  ever  existed,  and  has  been  destroyed 

Stephen. 
It  must  be  shown  that  it  was  a  complete  will 


248  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  iv 

PONTING. 

Shown  beyond  dispute. 

Stephen. 
Complete  down  to  the  smallest  detail. 

Vallance. 

[Continuing.]  At  the  same  time,  in  my  opinion,  the 
facts  do  not  warrant  the  making  of  an  affidavit  that  the  late 
Mr.  Mortimore  died  intestate. 

PONTING. 

[Stiffly.]      Indeed? 

Stephen. 

[Depressed.]     Really? 

Vallance. 

And  the  question  of  whether  or  not  he  left  a  duly  executed 
will  is  clearly  one  for  the  Court  to  decide. 

Elkin. 
Quite  so — quite  so. 

Vallance. 

I  advise,  therefore,  that,  to  get  the  question  determined, 
the  next-of-kin  should  consent  to  the  course  of  procedure 
suggested  by  Mr.  Elkin. 

Elkin. 

I  am  assuming  their  consent. 

Ponting. 

[Blustering.]  And  supposing  the  next-of-kin  do  not  con- 
sent, Mr.  Vallance ? 

Stephen. 
Supposing  we  do  not  consent — —  ? 


act  iv]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  249 

PONTING. 

Supposing  we  are  convinced — convinced — that  the  late  Mr. 
Mortimore  died  without  leaving  a  properly  executed  will? 

Elkin. 

Then  the  application,  instead  of  being  by  motion  to  the 

judge  in  Court,  must  take  the  form  of  an  action  by  writ. 

[To  Vallance.]     In  any  case,  perhaps  it  should  do  so. 

[There  is  a  pause.     Stephen  wanders  disconsolately  to 

the  window  on  the  right  and  stands  gazing  into  the 

garden.     Ponting  leans  his  elbows  on  the  piano  and 

stares  at  vacancy. 

Elkin. 

[To  Helen,  looking  at  his  watch.]     Well,  my  dear  Miss 

Thornhill ? 

[Vallance  rises. 
Helen. 

Wait — wait  a  moment 

[The  sound  of  Helen's  voice  turns  everybody,  except 
James,  Thaddeus,  and  Phyllis,  in  her  direction. 

Elkin. 
[To  Helen.]     Eh? 

Helen. 

Wait  a  moment,  please.     There  is  something  I  want  to 
be  told — there's  something  I  want  to  be  told  plainly. 

Elkin. 
What? 

Helen. 

Mrs.  Thaddeus  Mortimore 


Elkin. 
Yes? 


250  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  iv 

Helen. 

[Slowly.]  I  want  to  know  whether  it  is  necessary,  what- 
ever proceedings  are  taken  on  my  behalf — whether  it  is 
necessary  that  she  should  be  publicly  disgraced.  I  want  to 
know  that. 

Elkin. 

Whichever  course  is  adopted — motion  to  the  judge  or 
action  by  writ — Mrs.  Thaddeus  Mortimore's  act  must  be 
disclosed  in  open  Court. 

Helen. 

There  are  no  means  of  avoiding  it? 

Elkin. 
None. 

Helen. 

And  the  offence  she  has  committed  is — felony,  you  say? 
[Elkin  inclines  his  head.     Again  there  is  silence,  dur- 
ing which  Helen  sits  ivith  knitted  brows,  and  then 
James  rouses  himself  and  looks  up. 

James. 
[To  Elkin.]     What's  the — what's  the  penalty? 

Elkin. 
[Turning  to  him.]     The — the  penalty? 

James. 
The  legal  punishment. 

Elkin. 

I  think — another  occasion 

[Suddenly  Thaddeus  and  Phyllis  rise  together,  he 
with  an  arm  round  her,  supporting  her,  and  they 
stand  side  by  side  like  criminals  in  the  dock. 


act  iv]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  251 

Thaddeus. 

[Quickly.]     No,  no — now 

t 

Phyllis. 

[Faintly.]     Yes — now 

Thaddeus. 

[To  Elkin  and  Vallance.]  We— we  should  like  to 
know  the  worst,  gentlemen.  I — I  had  the  idea  from  the 
first  that  it  was  a  serious  offence — but  hardly  so  serious 

Elkin. 
[With  a  wave  of  the  hand.]     By  and  by 

Thaddeus. 

Oh,  you  needn't  hesitate,  Mr.  Elkin.  [Drawing  Phyllis 
closer  to  him.]  We — we  shall  go  through  with  it.  We 
shall  go  through  with  it  to  the  end.  [A  pause.]  Imprison- 
ment, sir? 

Elkin. 

[Gravely.]  A  person  convicted  of  stealing  or  destroying 
a  will  for  a  fraudulent  purpose  is  liable  under  the  statute 
to  varying  terms  of  penal  servitude,  or  to  imprisonment  with 
or  without  hard  labor.  In  this  instance,  we  should  be  justi- 
fied, I  am  sure,  in  hoping  for  a  considerable  amount  of 
leniency. 

[Thaddeus  and  Phyllis  slowly  look  at  one  another 
with  expressionless  faces.  James  rises  and  moves 
away  to  the  fireplace  where  he  stands  looking  down 
upon  the  flowers  in  the  grate.  Vallance  goes  to 
the  writing-table  and  puts  the  ivritten  paper  into  his 
bag.  Elkin  rises,  takes  up  his  bag  from  the  table 
at  the  end  of  the  piano,  and  is  following  Vallance. 
As  he  passes  Helen,  she  lays  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 


252  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  iv 

Helen. 
Mr.  Elkin 

Elkin. 
[Stopping.]     Yes? 

Helen. 

Oh,  but  this  is  impossible. 

Elkin. 
Impossible  ? 

Helen. 

Quite  impossible.  I  couldn't  be  a  party — please  under- 
stand me — I  refuse  to  be  a  party — to  any  steps  which  would 
bring  ruin  on  Mrs.  Mortimore. 

Elkin. 
[Politely.]     You  refuse ? 

Helen. 

Absolutely.  At  any  cost — at  any  cost  to  me — we  must 
all  unite  in  sparing  her  and  her  husband  and  children. 

Elkin. 

My  dear  young  lady,  I  join  you  heartily  in  your  desire 
not  to  bring  suffering  upon  innocent  people.  But  if  you 
decline  to  take  proceedings 

Helen. 

There  is  no  "if"  in  the  matter 


Elkin. 
If  you  decline  to  take  proceedings,  there  is  a  deadlock. 

Helen. 
A  deadlock? 


Act  iv]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  253 

Elkin. 

As  Mr.  Vallance  tells  us,  it's  out  of  the  question  that  the 
next-of-Jcin  should  now  apply  for  Letters  of  Administration 
in  the  usual  way. 

Helen. 

Why?    I  don't  see  why — I  can't  see  why. 

Elkin. 

[Pointing  to  James  and  Stephen.]  You  don't  see  why 
neither  of  these  gentlemen  can  make  an  affidavit  that  Mr. 
Edward  Mortimore  died  intestate! 

Helen. 

[With  a  movement  of  the  head  towards  Phyllis.]  She 
has  no  remembrance  of  a — what  is  it  called ? 

PONTING. 

[Eagerly.]     Attestation  clause. 

Stephen. 

[Coming  to  the  head  of  the  piano.]     Attestation  clause. 

Helen. 

[Haughtily,  without  turning.]  Thank  you.  [To  Elkin.] 
Only  the  vaguest  notion  that  there  were  witnesses. 

PONTING. 

The  vaguest  notion. 

Stephen. 
The  haziest. 

Elkin. 

Her  memory  is  uncertain  there.  \[To  Helen.]  But  you 
know — you  know,  Miss  Thornhill — as  we  all  know — that 
it  was  your  father's  will  that  was  found  in  the  safe  at  Can- 
non Row  and  destroyed. 


254  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  iv 

Helen. 

[Looking  up  at  him,  gripping  the  arms  of  her  chair. ]  Yes, 
of  course  I  know  it.  Thank  God  I  know  it!  I'm  happy 
in  knowing  it.  I  know  he  didn't  forget  me;  I  know  I  was 
all  to  him  that  I  imagined  myself  to  be.  And  it's  because 
I've  come  to  know  this  at  last — through  her — that  I  can 
afford  to  be  a  little  generous  to  her.  Oh,  please  don't  think 
that  I  want  to  introduce  sentimentality  into  this  affair — 
[with  a  contemptuous  glance  at  Ponting  and  Stephen] 
any  more  than  Colonel  Ponting  does — or  Mr.  Stephen 
Mortimore.  Mrs.  Thaddeus  did  a  cruel  thing  when  she  de- 
stroyed that  will.  It's  no  excuse  for  her  to  say  that  she 
wasn't  aware  of  my  existence.  She  was  defrauding  some 
woman;  and,  as  it  happened — I  own  it  now! — defrauding 
that  woman,  not  only  of  money,  but  of  what  is  more  valuable 
than  money — of  peace  of  mind,  contentment,  belief  in  one 
who  could  never  speak,  never  explain,  never  defend  himself. 
However,  she  has  made  the  best  reparation  it  is  in  her  power 
to  make — and  she  has  gone  through  a  bad  time — and  I  for- 
give her.  [Phyllis  releases  herself  from  Thaddeus  and 
drops  down  upon  the  settee.  He  sits  upon  the  ottoman,  bury- 
ing his  face  in  his  hands.  Helen  rises,  struggling  to  keep 
back  her  tears,  and  turns  to  the  door.]  I — I'll  go  up-stairs — 
if  you'll  allow  me 

Elkin. 

[Between  her  and  the  door.]  Miss  Thornhill,  you  put  us 
in  a  position  of  great  difficulty 

Helen. 

[Impatiently.]  I  say  again,  I  don't  see  why.  Where  is 
the  difficulty?  [To  Vallance  and  Elkin.]  If  there's  a 
difficulty,  it's  you  gentlemen  who  are  raising  it.  Let  the 
affair  go  on  as  it  was  going  on.  [Turning  to  James.]  Mr. 
Mortimore!     [To  Elkin.]      I  say,  let  Mr.  James  Morti- 


act  iv]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  255 

more  and  the  others  administer  the  estate  as  they  intended  to 
do.  [To  James,  who  has  left  the  fireplace  and  slowly  ad- 
vanced to  her.]      Mr.  Mortimore 

Elkin. 

[To  Helen.]  Then  you  would  have  Mr.  James  Morti- 
more deliberately  swear  that  he  believes  his  late  brother 
died  without  leaving  a  will? 

Helen. 

Certainly,  if  necessary.    Who  would  be  hurt  by  it? 

Elkin. 
[Pursing  his  lips.]      Miss  Thornhill 

Helen. 

[Hotly.]  Why,  which  do  you  think  would  be  the  more 
acceptable  to  the  Almighty — that  I  should  send  this  poor 
lady  to  prison,  or  that  Mr.  James  should  take  a  false  oath? 

Elkin. 

H'm!  I  won't  attempt  to  follow  you  quite  so  far.  But 
even  then  a  most  important  point  would  remain  to  be  settled. 

Helen. 

Even  then ? 

Elkin. 

Assuming  that  Mr.  James  Mortimore  did  make  this  af- 
fidavit— that  he  were  permitted  to  make  such  an  affidavit 

Helen. 
Yes? 

Elkin. 

What  about  the  disposition  of  the  estate? 


256  SHE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  iv 

Helen. 

[Nodding,  slowly  and  thoughtfully.]  The — the  disposi- 
tion of  the  estate 

[Stephen  steals  over  to  Ponting,  and  Rose,  Ann, 
and  Louisa  quietly  rise  and  gather  together.  They 
all  listen  ivith  painful  interest. 

Elkin. 

[To  Helen.]  Morally,  at  all  events,  the  whole  of  the 
late  Mr.  Mortimore's  estate  belongs  to  you. 

Helen. 

[Simply.]  It  was  his  intention  that  it  should  do  so. 
[Looking  at  James,  as  if  inviting  him  to  speak.]     Well ? 

James. 

[Stroking  his  beard.]  Look  here,  Miss  Thornhill.  [Point- 
ing to  the  chair  on  the  extreme  left.]  Sit  down  a  minute. 
[She  sits.  James  also  seats  himself,  facing  her,  at  the  right 
of  the  table  at  the  end  of  the  piano.  Vallance  joins  Elkin 
and  they  stand  near  Helen,  occasionally  exchanging  remarks 
with  each  other.]  Look  here.  [In  a  deep,  gruff  voice.] 
There  is  no  doubt  that  my  brother  Ned's  money  rightfully 
belongs  to  you. 

Ponting. 

[Nervously.]     Mortimore 


James. 

[Turning  upon  him.]  You  leave  us  alone.  Don't  you 
interfere.  [To  Helen.]  I've  no  more  doubt  about  it,  Miss 
Thornhill,  than  that  I'm  sitting  here.  Very  good.  Say  I 
make  the  affidavit,  and  that  we — the  family — obtain  Letters 
of  Administration.  What  then?  The  money  comes  to  us. 
Still — it's  yours.     We  get  hold  of  it,  but  it's  yours.     Now! 


act  iv]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  257 

What  if  we  offer  to  throw  the  whole  lot,  so  to  speak,  into 
your  lap  ? 

Stephen. 
{Biting  his  nails.]     Jim 

James. 

[To  Stephen.]  Don't  you  interfere.  [To  Helen.]  I 
repeat,  what  if  we  offer  to  throw  the  whole  lot  into  your  lap  ? 
[Leaning  forward,  very  earnestly.]      Miss  Thornhill 

PONTING. 

May  I ? 

James. 

[To    Ponting.]       If    you    can't    be    silent !       [To 

Helen.]  Miss  Thornhill,  we're  poor,  we  Mortimores.  I 
won't  say  anything  about  Rose — [ivith  a  sneer]  it  wouldn't 
be  polite  to  the  Colonel ;  nor  Tad — you  see  what  he's  come 
to.  But  Stephen  and  me — take  our  case.  [To  Elkin  and 
Vallance.]  Mr.  Vallance — Mr.  Elkin — this  is  sacred. 
[To  Helen.]  My  dear,  we're  prominent  men  in  the  town, 
both  of  us;  we're  looked  up  to  as  being  fairly  warm  and  com- 
fortable; but  in  reality  we're  not  much  better  off  than  the 
others.  My  trade's  being  cut  into  on  all  sides;  Stephen's 
business  has  run  to  seed ;  we've  no  capital ;  we've  never  had 
any  capital.  What  we  might  have  saved  has  been  spent  on 
educating  our  children,  and  keeping  up  appearances;  and 
when  the  time  comes  for  us  to  be  knocked  out,  there'll  be 
precious  little — bar  a  stroke  of  luck — precious  little  for  us 
to  end  our  days  on.  So  this  is  a  terrible  disappointment  to 
us — an  awful  disappointment.  Ave,  the  money's  yours — 
it's  yours — but — [opening  his  hands]  what  are  you  going  to 
do  for  the  family? 

[There  is  a  pause.     The  Pontings,   Stephen,  Ann 
and  Louisa  draw  a  little  nearer. 


258  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  iv 

Helen. 

[To  James.]  Well — since  you  put  it  in  this  way — I'll 
tell  you  what  I'll  do.  [Another  pause.]  I'll  share  with 
you  all. 

James. 

[To  the  others.]  You  leave  us  alone;  you  leave  us  alone. 
[To  Helen.]     Share  and  share  alike? 

Helen. 

[Thinking.]  Share  and  share  alike — after  discharging  my 
obligations. 

James. 
Obligations? 

PONTING  and   STEPHEN. 
Obligations? 

Helen. 

After  carrying  out  my  father's  instructions  with  regard 
to  his  old  servants. 

James. 
[Nodding.]     Oh,  aye. 

PONTING. 

[Walking  about  excitedly.]     That's  a  small  matter. 

Stephen. 
[Also  walking  about.]     A  trifle — a  trifle 


PONTING. 

Then  what  it  amounts  to  is  this — the  estate  will  be  di- 
vided into  five  parts  instead  of  four. 

Stephen. 
Five  instead  of  four — obviously. 


act  iv]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  259 


Helen. 

[Still  thinking.}      No- 

« 

—into  six. 

Six? 

James. 

Six! 

PONTING   and   STEPHEN 

Rose  and  Louisa. 

[Who  with  Ann,  are  moving  round  the  head  of  the  piano, 
to  join  Ponting  and  Stephen.]     Six! 

Helen. 

[Firmly.]  Six.  A  share  must  be  given,  as  a  memorial 
of  my  father,  to  one  of  the  hospitals  in  Linchpool. 

Ponting  and  Stephen. 
[Protestingly.]     Oh ! 

Rose,  Ann  and  Louisa. 
Oh ! 

Ponting. 

Entirely  unnecessary. 

Stephen. 
Uncalled  for. 

Helen. 
I  insist. 

Ponting. 

[Coming  to  Helen.]  My  dear  Miss  Thornhill,  believe 
me — believe  me — these  cadging  hospitals  are  a  great  deal  too 
well  off  as  it  is. 

Helen. 

I  insist  that  a  share  shall  be  given  to  a  Linchpool  hospital. 


260  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  nr 

PONTING. 

I  could  furnish  you  with  details  of  maladministration  on 
the  part  of  hospital-boards 

Rose. 
Shocking  mismanagement 

Stephen. 
There's  our  own  hospital 

Louisa. 
A  scandal. 

Stephen. 

Our  Jubilee  hospital 


Ann. 
It's  scarcely  fit  to  send  your  servants  to. 

Helen. 
[To  James,  rising.]     Mr.  Mortimore 

James. 

[Rising,  to  PONTING  and  the  rest.]  Miss  Thornhill  says 
that  one  share  of  the  estate's  to  go  to  a  Linchpool  hospital. 
D'ye  hear?  [Moving  towards  them  authoritatively.]  That's 
enough. 

[Ponting  and  Stephen  bustle  to  the  writing-table, 
where  they  each  seize  a  sheet  of  paper  and  proceed  to 
reckon.  Rose,  Ann  and  Louisa  surround  them. 
James  stands  by,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  looking  on. 

Ponting. 

[Sitting  at  the  writing-table — in  an  undertone.]  A  hun- 
dred and  seventy  thousand  pounds 


act  iv]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  261 

Stephen. 

{Bending    over   the   table — in   an    undertone.]      Six   into 
seventeen — two  and  carry  five 

PONTING. 

Six  into  fifty — eight  and  carry  two 

Stephen. 

Six  into  twenty 

Ponting. 

Three 

[Helen  seats  herself  in  the  chair  on  the  right  of  the 
table  at  the  end  of  the  piano.  Elkin  and  Vallance 
are  now  in  earnest  conversation  on  the  extreme  left. 
While  the  calculation  is  going  on,  Thaddeus  and 
Phyllis  raise  their  heads  and  look  at  each  other. 

Stephen. 

Carry  two 

Ponting. 

Six  into  twenty  again — three  and  carry  two 

Stephen. 
Again,  six  into  twenty — three  and  carry  two 

Ponting. 
Six  into  forty — six  and  carry  four 

Stephen. 
Six  into  forty-eight 

Ponting. 

Eight 

Stephen. 

Twenty-eight   thousand,   three   hundred   and   thirty-three' 
pounds,  six  shillings  and  eight  pence. 


262  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  iv 

PONTING. 

[Rising,  his  paper  in  his  hand.]     Twenty-eight  thousand 
apiece. 

Thaddeus. 

[Rising.  \     No 

Phyllis. 
[Rising.]     No 

Thaddeus. 
[As  everybody  turns  to  him.]     No,  no — 

James. 
Eh? 

PONTING. 

[To  Thaddeus.]     What  do  you  mean,  sir? 

Stephen. 
[To  Thaddeus.]     What  do  you  mean? 

Thaddeus. 

[Agitatedly.]     I  don't  take  my  share — my  wife  and  I  don't 
take  our  share — we  don't  touch  it 

Phyllis. 

[Clinging  to  Thaddeus.]     We  won't  touch  it — oh,  no, 

no,  no,  no ! 

James. 

[To  Thaddeus.]     Don't  be  a  fool — don't  be  a  fool! 

Thaddeus. 
Fool  or  no  fool — not  a  penny 

Phyllis. 

Not  a  penny  of  it 

Thaddeus. 
Not  a  penny. 


act  iv]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  263 

Helen. 

Very  well,  then.      [In  a  clear  voice.]      Very  well;  Mr. 
Thaddeus  Mortimore  will  not  accept  his  share. 

PONTING. 

[With  alacrity.]      He  declines  it. 

Helen. 
He  declines  it. 

Ponting. 

That  alters  the  figures — alters  the  figures 

Stephen. 
Very  materially. 

Rose. 

[To  Ann  and  Louisa.]     Only  five  to  share  instead  of 
six. 

Ann. 

[Bewildered.]     I  don't  understand 

Louisa. 

[Shaking  her  arm.]     Five  instead  of  six! 

[Laying  his  paper  on  the  top  of  the  piano,  PoNTING 
produces  his  pocket-pencil  and  makes  a  fresh  calcula- 
tion. Stephen  stands  at  his  elbow.  Rose,  Ann 
and  Louisa  gather  round  them. 

Stephen. 
[In  an  undertone.]    A  hundred  and  seventy  thousand 

Ponting. 
[In  an  undertone.]     Five  into  seventeen 

Stephen. 
Three 


264  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  iv 

PONTING. 
Five  into  twenty 


Stephen. 
Thirty-four  thousand  exactly. 

PONTING. 

Thirty-four  thousand  apiece. 

Rose,  Ann  and  Louisa. 
[To  each  other.]     Thirty-four  thousand! 

Helen. 

Wait — wait.  Wait,  please.  [After  a  short  pause.]  Mr. 
Thaddeus  Mortimore  refuses  to  accept  his  share.  I  am 
sorry — but  he  appears  determined. 

Thaddeus. 
Determined — determined 

Phyllis. 

Determined 

Helen. 

That  being  so,  I  ask  that  his  share  shall  be  settled  upon 

his  boy  and  girl.     [To  Elkin.]     Mr.  Elkin [Elkin 

advances  to  her.]      I  suppose  an  arrangement  of  that  kind 
can  easily  be  made  ? 

Elkin. 

[With  a  shrug.]  Mr.  Thaddeus  Mortimore  can  assent 
to  his  share  being  handed  over  to  the  trustees  of  a  Deed 
of  Settlement  for  the  benefit  of  his  children,  giving  a  release 
to  the  administrator  from  all  claims  in  respect  of  his  share. 


act  iv]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  265 

Helen. 

[Turning  to  Thaddeus.]  You've  no  objection  to  this? 
[Thaddeus  and  Phyllis  stare  at  Helen  dumbly,  with 
parted  lips.]  They  are  great  friends  of  mine — Cyril  and 
Joyce — and  I  hope  they'll  remain  so.  [A  pause.]  Well? 
You've  no  right  to  stand  in  their  light.  [A  pause.]  You 
won't,  surely,  stand  in  their  light?     [A  pause.]     Don't. 

[Again  there  is  silence,  and  then  Phyllis,  leaving 
Thaddeus,  totters  forward,  and  drops  on  her  knees 
before  Helen,  bowing  her  head  in  Helen's  lap. 

Phyllis. 

[Weeping.]      Oh-oh-oh ! 

[Calmly,  Helen  disengages  herself  from  PHYLLIS, 
rises,  and  walks  away  to  the  fireplace.  THADDEUS 
lifts  Phyllis  from  the  ground  and  leads  her  to  the 
open  window.  They  stand  there,  facing  the  garden, 
she  crying  upon  his  shoulder. 

Elkin. 

[Advancing  to  the  middle  of  the  room,  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  is  about  to  perform  an  unpleasant  task.]  Miss 
Thornhill — [Helen  turns  to  him]  Mr.  Vallance  and  I — 
[to  Vallance]  Mr.  Vallance — [Vallance  advances]  Mr. 
Vallance  and  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that,  as  all  per- 
sons interested  in  this  business  are  sui  juris  and  agreeable  to 
the  compromise  which  has  been  proposed,  nobody  would  be 
injured  by  the  next-of-kin  applying  for  Letters  of  Administra- 
tion. 

Vallance. 

[To  Elkin.]     Except  the  Revenue. 

Elkin. 

[Indifferently,  with  a  nod.']     The  Revenue. 


266  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  iv 

Vallance. 
The  legacy  duty  being  at  three  per  cent,  instead  of  ten. 

Elkin. 

[Nodding.}  H'm,  h'm!  [To  Helen.]  But,  my  dear 
young  lady,  we  have  also  to  say  that,  with  the  information 
we  possess,  we  do  not  see  our  way  clear  to  act  in  the  matter 
any  further. 

Vallance. 

[To  James,  who  has  come  forward  on  the  left.}  We  cer- 
tainly could  not  be  parties  to  the  making  of  an  affidavit  that 
the  deceased  died  intestate. 

Elkin. 
We  couldn't  reconcile  ourselves  to  that. 

Vallance. 

We  leave  it,  therefore,  to  the  next-of-kin  to  take  their  own 
course  for  obtaining  Letters  of  Administration. 

Elkin. 

In  fact,  we  beg  to  be  allowed  to  withdraw  from  the  affair 
altogether.     I  speak  for  myself,  at  any  rate. 

Vallance. 
[Emphatically.}      Altogether. 

James. 

[After  a  pause.}  Oh — all  right,  Mr.  Elkin;  all  right, 
Mr.  Vallance. 

Helen. 

[To  Elkin.]     Then — do  I  lose  you ? 


act  iv]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  267 

Elkin. 
I  an>  afraid — for  the  present 


Helen. 

[With  dignity.]  As  you  please.  I  am  very  grateful  to 
you  for  what  you  have  done  for  me. 

Elkin. 

[Looking  round.]  If  I  may  offer  a  last  word  of  advice, 
it  is  that  you  should  avoid  putting  the  terms  of  this  com- 
promise into  writing. 

Vallance. 

[Assentingly.]  Each  party  must  rely  upon  the  other  to 
fulfil  the  terms  honorably. 

Elkin. 

[To  Helen.]  You  have  no  legal  right  to  enforce  those 
terms;  but  pray  remember  that,  in  the  event  of  any  breach 
of  faith,  there  would  be  nothing  to  prevent  you  propounding 
the  will  even  after  Letters  of  Administration  have  been 
granted. 

James. 

Breach  of  faith,  sir ! 

PONTING   and   STEPHEN. 
[Indignantly.]      Oh ! 

James. 
There's  no  need,  Mr.  Elkin * 

Elkin. 

[To  James.]  No,  no,  no — not  the  slightest,  I'm  con- 
vinced. [To  Helen,  taking  her  hand.]  The  little  hotel  in 
London — Norfolk  Street 5 


268  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  iv 

Helen. 

Till  I'm  suited  with  lodgings. 

Elkin. 
Mrs.  Elkin  will  write. 

Helen. 
My  love  to  her. 

[He  smiles  at  her  and  leaves  her,  as  VALLANCE  comes 
to  her  and  shakes  her  hand. 

Vallance. 
[To  Helen.]     Good-bye. 

Helen. 
[To  Vallance.]     Good-bye. 

Elkin. 

[To  those  on  the  left.]     Good-afternoon. 

A  Murmur. 
Good-afternoon. 

Vallance. 

[To  those  on  the  left.]     Good-afternoon. 

A  Murmur. 
Good-afternoon. 

[James  has  opened  the  door.  Elkin  and  Vallance, 
carrying  their  bags,  go  out.  James  follows  them, 
closing  the  door. 

PONTING. 

[Coming  forward.]     Ha!     We  can  replace  those  gentle- 
men without  much  difficulty. 


act  iv]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  269 

Stephen. 

[Coming  forward.]  Old  Crake  has  gone  to  pieces  and 
this  fellow  Vallance  is  playing  ducks  and  drakes  with  the 
practice — ducks  and  drakes. 

PONTING. 

[Offering  his  hand  to  Helen,  who  takes  it  perfunctorily.] 
Greatly  indebted  to  you — greatly  indebted  to  you  for  meet- 
ing us  half-way  and  saving  unpleasantness. 

Stephen. 
Pratt  is  the  best  lawyer  in  the  town — the  best  by  far. 

Ponting. 

[To  Helen.]  Nothing  like  a  compromise,  provided  it  can 
be  arrived  at — ah 

Stephen. 

Without  loss  of  self-respect  on  both  sides. 

[James  returns. 

Ponting. 

[To  James.]     Mortimore,  we'll  go  back  to  your  house. 

There  are  two  or  three  things  to  talk  over 

[Rose  comes  to  Helen  as  Ponting  goes  to  Stephen 
and  James. 

Rose. 

[Shaking  hands  with  Helen.]  We  sha'n't  be  settled  in 
Carlos  Place  till  the  autumn,  but  directly  we  are  settled 

Helen. 
[Distantly.]     Thank  you. 


270  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  iv 

Rose. 

Everybody  flocks  to  my  Tuesdays.  Let  me  have  your 
address  and  I'll  send  you  a  card. 

[Rose   leaves    Helen,    making   way   for   Louisa   and 
Stephen. 

Louisa. 

[To  Helen.]  Don't  forget  the  Crescent.  Whenever 
you  want  to  visit  your  dear  father's  birthplace 

Stephen. 

[Benevolently.']  And  if  there  should  be  any  little  cere- 
mony over  laying  the  foundation-stone  of  the  new  Times  and 
Mirror  building 

Louisa. 

There's  the  spare  bedroom. 

[They  shake  hands  with  her  and,  making  way  for  Ann 
and  James,  follow  the  Pontings,  ivho  have  gone  out. 

Ann. 

[Shaking  hands  with  Helen,  gloomily.]  The  next  time 
you  stay  at  "Ivanhoe,"  I  hope  you'll  unpack  more  than  one 
small  trunk.     But,  there — [kissing  her]   I  bear  no  malice. 

[She  follows  the  others,  leaving  James  ivith  Helen. 

James. 

[To  HELEN,  gruffly,  wringing  her  hand.]  Much  obliged 
to  you,  my  dear;  much  obliged  to  you. 

Helen. 

[After  glancing  over  her  shoulder,  in  a  whisper.]      Mr. 

Mortimore 

James. 
Eh? 


act  ivl  THE  THUNDERBOLT  271 

Helen. 

[Willi  a  motion  of  her  head  in  the  direction  of  Thaddeus 
and  Phyllis.]     These  two — these  two 

James. 
[Lowering  his  voice.}     What  about  'em? 

Helen. 

She's  done  a  wrong  thing,  but  recollect — you  all  profit 
by  it.  You  don't  disdain,  any  of  you,  to  profit  by  it.  [He 
looks  at  her  queerly,  but  straight  in  the  eyes.]  Try  to  make 
their  lives  a  little  easier  for  them. 

James. 

Easier ? 

Helen. 

Happier.  You  can  influence  the  others,  if  you  will.  [A 
pause.]     Will  you? 

[He  reflects,  shakes  her  hand  again,  and  goes  to  the 
door. 

James. 

[At  the  door,  sharply.}     Tad !     [Thaddeus  turns.} 

See  you  in  the  morning.     Phyllis !      [She  also  turns  to 

him,  half  scared  at  his  tone.]     See  you  both  in  the  morning. 
[Nodding  to  her.]      Good-bye,  old  girl. 

[He  disappears.  Helen  is  now  standing  upon  the 
hearth-rug,  her  hands  behind  her,  looking  down  into 
the  grate.  Thaddeus  and  Phyllis  glance  at  her; 
then,  guiltily,  they  too  move  to  the  door,  passing 
round  the  head  of  the  piano. 

Phyllis. 

[At  the  door  in  a  low,  hard  voice.]     Helen [Helen 

partly  turns.]     You're  leaving  to-morrow.     I'll  keep  out  of 


272  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  iv 

your  way — I'll  keep  up-stairs  in  my  room — till  you've  gone. 
[She   goes    out.      Thaddeus    is   following    her,    when 
Helen  calls  to  him. 

Helen. 

Mr.  Thaddeus [He  closes  the  door  and  advances  to 

her  humbly.  She  comes  forward.]  There's  no  reason  why 
I  should  put  your  wife  to  that  trouble.  It's  equally  con- 
venient to  me  to  return  to  London  this  evening.  [He  bows.] 
Will  you  kindly  ask  Kate  to  pack. me? 

Thaddeus. 
Certainly. 

Helen. 

Er — [thinking]    Mr.  Trist  had  some  calls  to  make  after 
we  left  the  flower-show.    If  I've  gone  before  he  comes  back, 

tell  him  I'll  write 

Thaddeus. 

[Bowing  again.]     You'll  write. 

Helen. 
And  explain. 

Thaddeus. 

[Under  his  breath,  looking  up  %quickly .]     Explain ! 

Helen. 

Explain,   among  other   things,   that   I've   yielded   to   the 

desire  of  the  family 

Thaddeus. 

Desire ? 

Helen. 

That  I  should  accept  a  share  of  my  father's  property. 

Thaddeus. 

[Falteringly.]     Thank  you — thank  you 


act  iv]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  273 

Helen. 
[Aftjer  a  while.}     That's  all,  I  think. 

Thaddeus. 

[Offering  his  hand  to  her.]  I — I  wish  you  every  happi- 
ness, Miss  Thornhill.  [She  places  her  hand  in  his.]  I — I 
wish  you  every  happiness. 

[She  inclines  her  head,  in  acknowledgment  and  again 
he  goes  to  the  door;  and  again,  tunning  away  to  the 
round  table*  where  she  trifles  with  a  book,  she  calls 
him. 

Helen. 

Oh,  Mr.  Tad [He  halts.]     Mr.  Tad,  I.propose  that 

we  allow  six  months  to  pass  in  complete  silence — six  months 

from,  to-day 

Thaddeus. 

[Dully,  not  understanding.]      Six  months — silence ? 

Helen. 

I  mean,  without  my  hearing  from  your  wife.  Then,  per- 
haps, she — she  will  send  me  another  invitation 

Thaddeus. 
[Leaving  the  door,  staring  at  her.]     Invitation ? 

Helen. 

By  that  time,  we  shall,  all  of  us,  have  forgotten  a  great 
deal — sha'n'twe?  [Facing  him.]  You'll  say  that  to  her  for 
me? 

[He  hesitates,  then  he  takes  her  hands  and,  bending 
over  them,  kisses  them  repeatedly. 

Thaddeus. 
God  bless  you.    God  bless  you.    God  bless  you. 


274  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  iv 

Helen. 
[Withdrawing  her  hands.]     Find — Kate 


[Once  more  he  makes  for  the  door. 

Thaddeus. 

[Stopping  half-way  and  pulling  himself  together.]  Miss 
Thornhill — my  wife — my  wife — you've  seen  her  at  a  disad- 
vantage— a  terrible  disadvantage.  Few — few  pass  through 
life  without  being  seen — once — or  oftener — at  a  disadvantage. 
She — she's  a  splendid  woman — a  splendid  woman — a  splendid 
wife  and  mother.  [Moving  to  the  door.]  They  haven't 
appreciated  her — the  family  haven't  appreciated  her.  They've 
treated  her  abominably;  for  sixteen  years  she's  been  treated 
abominably.  [At  the  door.]  But  I've  never  regretted  my 
marriage — [defiantly]  I've  never  regretted  it — never,  for  a 
single  moment — never  regretted  it — never — never  regretted 

it 

[He  disappears.  She  goes  to  the  table  at  the  end  of  the 
piano  and  takes  up  her  drawing-block  and  box  of 
crayons.  As  she  does  so,  Trist  lets  himself  into  the 
garden.  She  pauses,  listening,  and  presently  he  enters 
the  room  at  the  open  window. 

Trist. 
[Throwing  his  hat  on  the  round  table.]     Ah ! 

Helen. 
[Animatedly.]     Mr.  Trist 


Trist. 


Yes? 


Helen. 

Run  out  to  the  post-office  for  me — send  a  telegram  in  my 

name 


act  iv]  THE  THUNDERBOLT  275 

Trist. 
With  pleasure. 

Helen. 

Gregory's  Hotel,  Norfolk  Street,  Strand,  London — the 
manager.  Miss  Thornhill  will  arrive  to-night — prepare  her 
room 


Trist. 

[His  face  falling.]     To-night! 

Helen. 
I've  altered  my  plans.     Gregory's  Hotel — Gregory's- 


Trist. 
[Picking  up  his  hat.]     Norfolk  Street,  Strand 

Helen. 

[At  the  door.]     Mr.  Trist — I  want  you  to  know — I — I've 
come  into  a  small  fortune. 

Trist. 

A  fortune ? 

Helen. 

Nearly  thirty  thousand  pounds. 

Trist. 

Thirty  thousand ! 

Helen. 

They've  persuaded  me — persuaded  me  to  take  a  share  of 
my  poor  father's  money. 

Trist. 
I— I'm  glad. 

Helen. 

You — you  think  I'm  doing  rightly? 


276  THE  THUNDERBOLT  [act  iy 

Trist. 

[Depressed.]     Why — of  course. 

[She  opens  the  door  and  he  goes  to  the  window. 

Helen. 

Mr.  Trist !     [She  comes  back  into  the  room.]     Mr. 

Trist !      [He    approaches    her.]      Mr.    Trist — don't — 

don't 

Trist. 
What?, 

Helen. 

[Her  head  drooping.]     Don't  let  this  make  any  difference 

between  us — will  you ? 

[She  raises  her  eyes  to  his  and  they  stand  looking  at  each 
other  in  silence.  Then  she  turns  away  abruptly  and 
leaves  the  room  as  he  hurries  through  the  garden. 


THE    END. 


MID-CHANNEL 


CRITICAL  PREFACE* 

Mid-Channel  was  more  popular  in  the  theatre  than  The 
Thunderbolt;  but  it  did  not  attract  so  large  a  patronage  to 
the  box-office  as  many  of  Pinero's  earlier  plays.  When  the 
piece  was  first  produced  in  London,  at  the  St.  James's  Thea- 
tre, on  September  2nd,  1909,  with  that  flawless  actress, 
Irene  Vanbrugh,  in  the  part  of  Zoe  Blundell,  it  achieved  a 
notable  succes  d'estime  and  enjoyed  a  considerable  run;  but, 
from  the  merely  commercial  point  of  view,  the  record  of  the 
piece  was  comparatively  disappointing.  Later,  when  Mid- 
Channel  was  reproduced  in  the  United  States,  with  the 
popular  Ethel  Barrymore  in  the  leading  role,  it  attracted  a 
larger  public,  and  drew  an  excellent  attendance  for  more 
than  a  year.  Commenting  on  this  circumstance — and  in- 
cluding Mr.  Bernard  Shaw  and  Mr.  Henry  Arthur  Jones 
within  the  scope  of  his  reflection — Sir  Arthur  said  to  the 
present  commentator,  with  a  witty  smile,  "If  it  were  not 
for  America,  we  couldn't  keep  alive."  .  .  .  He  was  naturally 
interested  in  Miss  Barrymore's  performance  of  Zoe  Blundell, 
which  he  had  never  witnessed.  I  had  seen  it  half  a  dozen 
times,  and  was  prepared  to  answer  his  eager  questions  con- 
cerning what  she  did  at  one  point  and  another  in  the  progress 
of  the  play.  I  admired  Miss  Barrymore's  portrayal ;  and 
the  only  thing  I  had  to  say  against  it  was  that  she  did  not 
suggest  that  underlying  note  of  innate  vulgarity  which  seemed 
to  me  a  necessary  trait  of  Zoe  Blundell's  character.  "I  see!", 
said  the  author,  "Miss  Barrymore  made  Zoe  more  ladylike 
and  lovable  than  she  actually  is.  .  .  .  Well,  maybe  that's 
another  reason  why  the  play  did  so  well  in  America." 

*  Copyright,  1922,  by  E.  P.  Dutton  &  Co. 

279 


28o  MID-CHANNEL 

I  feel  inclined  to  emphasise  the  fact  that  neither  The 
Thunderbolt  nor  Mid-Channel  made  much  money  in  the 
theatre,  because  this  detail  is  important,  not  only  from  the 
commercial,  but  also  from  the  critical,  point  of  view.  These 
two  plays  were  written  at  the  culmination  of  Pinero's  career 
[he  was  fifty-four  years  old  when  Mid-Channel  was  pro- 
duced] ;  and  they  represent  his  mind  at  its  most  completely 
characteristic  moment.  In  1910  he  told  me  very  frankly 
that  he  had  written  these  two  plays  primarily  to  please  him- 
self, and  that,  in  doing  so,  he  had  paid*  no  attention  to  the 
calculable  task  of  pleasing  the  public,  which  he  had  grown 
to  regard,  after  many  years  of  service,  as  a  secondary  duty. 

No  commentator  should  be  tempted  to  deny  that  it  is  a 
duty  for  the  dramatist  to  succeed  at  the  box-office.  Unless 
a  play  makes  money,  it  will  be  withdrawn.  If  it  is  with- 
drawn, it  will  cease  to  exist,  as  a  living  entity  behind  the 
footlights;  and,  in  that  event,  the  loss  to  humanity  will  be 
all  the  greater  in  proportion  to  the  importance  of  the  content 
of  the  play  and  the  sincerity  of  its  intention.  Sir  Arthur 
Pinero,  of  course,  is  fully  aware  of  this  principle,  although 
it  has  not  yet  impressed  itself,  apparently,  upon  the  mind 
of  so  promising  a  dramatist  as  Mr.  John  Galsworthy — the 
worthy  author  of  many  estimable  dramas  which  the  theatre- 
going  public  persistently  refuses  to  attend.  In  composing 
Mid-Channel  and  The  Thunderbolt  "to  please  himself," 
Pinero  did  not  presume  to  exalt  himself  above  his  public;  but 
he  was  willing  to  sacrifice  the  extensive  popularity  which  had 
been  eagerly  accorded  to  several  of  his  lighter  and  more 
"entertaining"  pieces. 

Sir  Arthur  told  me  that  he  had  come  to  a  point  in  his 
development  where  the  only  characters  who  acutely  interested 
him  were  mature  people  whose  lives  had  "somehow  gone 
awry."  He  liked  to  speculate  upon  the  difference  between 
what  they  were  and  what  they  might  have  been.  He  was 
no  longer  interested  by  inexperienced  characters  whose  lives 
lay  all  before  them, — although  he  was  fully  aware  that  the 


CRITICAL   PREFACE  281 

theatre  was  patronised  mainly  by  young  people,  and  that 
young,  unspotted  characters  were  more  popular  than  any 
others  on  the  stage.  By  this  conversation,  I  was  reminded 
of  the  case  of  Rembrandt.  Rembrandt,  in  painting  portraits, 
preferred  to  show  a  face,  not  merely  as  a  record  of  what  the 
sitter  looked  like  at  the  moment,  but  also  as  a  reminiscent 
summing-up  of  all  that  the  sitter  had  previously  been.  He 
was  not  especially  successful  in  painting  young  girls,  whose 
experience  of  life  was  still  before  them.  He  was  most  suc- 
cessful in  depicting  mature  people,  whose  experience  of  life 
was  already  written  in  their  faces;  and  his  greatest  portraits 
were  pictures  of  old  people  with  a  memorable  past. 

Disregarding,  now,  the  immediate  response  of  the  ticket- 
buying  public,  I  feel  inclined  to  consider  Mid-Channel  as 
perhaps  the  greatest  of  Pinero's  many  plays,  and  I  am  able 
to  report  that  the  author — despite  his  lifelong  habit  of  closing 
his  mind  to  a  discussion  of  the  comparative  merits  of  his 
several  endeavours — has  confessed  a  special  fondness  for  this 
composition, — a  fondness  which  is  shared,  in  his  own  memory, 
by  Iris  and  The  Notorious  Mrs.  Ebbsmith.  Time  alone  can 
pick  out  with  finality  the  best  play  of  Pinero;  but  if  I  were 
suddenly  required  to  adduce  evidence  in  support  of  the  un- 
expected statement  that  Pinero,  at  his  highest,  is  an  abler 
dramatist  than  Ibsen,  I  should  toss  Mid-Channel  on  the 
carpet  and  appeal  to  futurity  for  a  verdict  without  prejudice. 
Inviting  the  more  leisurely  decision  of  commentators  yet  to 
come,  I  am  willing  now  to  risk  the  statement  that  Mid- 
Channel  is  a  greater  play  than  Hedda  Gabler  or  A  Doll's 
House. 

Mid-Channel,  in  the  first  place,  discusses  a  "theme"  which 
is  eternally  important  to  every  member  of  the  theatre-going 
public;  and  this  is  the  primary  point  which  leads  the  present 
editor  to  set  this  drama,  in  his  own  opinion,  higher  than  The 
Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray  or  The  Notorious  Mrs.  Ebbsmith. 
The  characters,  though  sharply  individualised,  are  more 
usual,  and  less  eccentric,  than  those  that  we  are  ordinarily 


282  MID-CHANNEL 

invited  to  meet  in  a  drama  by  Pinero.  We  can  put  our- 
selves, without  appreciable  effort,  in  their  places,  and  can 
easily  imagine  that  what  is  actually  shown  upon  the  stage  is 
really  happening  to  us.  And,  if  we  feel  inclined  to  hate  the 
characters  exhibited  upon  the  stage,  it  is  only  because  these 
characters  are  too  closely  related  to  ourselves, — with  an 
intimacy  that  may  seem  a  little  inconsiderate. 

Mid-Channel,  moreover,  is  not  only  important  in  its  sub- 
ject-matter, but  also  monumental  in  its  execution.  It  appeals 
to  the  literary  student  by  virtue  of  its  "theme";  it  appeals 
to  the  casual  public  by  virtue  of  its  pathos  and  its  sheer 
theatric  strength;  and  it  appeals  to  all  playwrights  by  virtue 
of  its  meticulous  manipulation  of  many  of  the  technical 
devices  that  the  world  has  learned  throughout  the  long  and 
gradual  development  of  the  craft  of  making  plays. 

Consider,  for  example,  the  handling  of  the  troublous 
element  of  setting.  In  presenting  the  text  of  Mid-Channel 
to  the  reading  public,  the  editor  has  decided  to  reproduce 
the  stage-maps  designed  originally  by  the  author.  The  first 
and  second  acts  are  set  in  the  same  room;  but  the  lapse  of 
time,  between  winter  and  summer,  is  indicated  immediately 
to  the  eye  by  a  re-arrangement  of  the  furniture.  In  both 
acts,  a  vivid  sense  of  the  adjoining  room  is  indicated  by  the 
practical  employment  of  two  doors  which  are  set  up  at  the 
right  hand  of  the  spectator. 

The  setting  of  the  fourth  and  final  act  is  exceedingly  im- 
portant; for  this  setting  finally  determines  the  suicide  of 
Zoe  Blundell.  Sophocles  (the  greatest  dramatist  of  ancient 
days)  and  Shakespeare  (the  greatest  dramatist  of  mediaeval 
days)  tried  always  to  imagine  suicides  as  motivated  by  con- 
siderations that  swam  immune  from  any  question  of  concor- 
dant place  and  time.  But  the  bulk  of  modern  evidence  shows 
clearly  that  people  do  not  actually  kill  themselves  unless  they 
happen  to  be  in  an  appropriate  place  at  an  appropriate  time, 
when  the  mood  for  suicide  is  on  them.  Zoe  Blundell  is 
impelled  to  kill  herself  because,  at  a  desperate  moment,  she 


CRITICAL   PREFACE  283 

is  driven  forth  upon  a  balcony  which  dizzily  invites  a  down- 
ward dive  to  quick  oblivion.  This  tragic  outcome  is  con- 
ditioned by  the  setting;  and,  conversely — to  revert  to  the 
realm  of  critical  conjecture — this  determinative  setting  must 
have  been  suggested  to  the  author's  mind  by  several  inherent 
factors  in  the  antecedent  series  of  events. 

In  the  gradual  unfolding  of  the  fourth  act,  the  various 
devices  by  which  the  final  suicide  of  Zoe  Blundell  is  made 
to  seem  inevitable  should  be  admired  by  all  students  of  the 
technique  of  the  modern  drama.  When  the  curtain  rises, 
the  back-drop,  by  revealing  the  top  of  a  building  so  generally 
known  as  the  Albert  Hall,  suggests  at  once  the  height,  above 
the  street,  of  Lenny  Ferris's  apartment.  Ethel  Pierpoint 
strolls  forth  upon  the  balcony,  and  describes  the  "tots"  of 
people  that  she  sees  below ;  and  her  stodgy  mother  soon  grows 
dizzy  at  the  prospect.  This  emphasis  upon  the  disconcerting 
height  of  Lenny's  balcony  is  fortified  by  a  subtle  exposition 
of  the  fact  that  Lenny's  bedroom  (to  the  right  of  the  specta- 
tor) can  yield  no  other  exit  except  upon  this  dangerous 
balcony. 

The  first  act  of  Mid-Channel  opens  with  a  conventional 
series  of  questions  and  answers  between  Ethel  Pierpoint  and 
her  mother.  In  1910  I  accused  the  author  of  having  adopted 
a  labour-saving  device  in  this  respect.  Sir  Arthur  answered 
with  his  customary  frankness.  "After  the  elaborate  expo- 
sition of  The  Thunderbolt,"  he  said  to  me,  "it  no  longer 
seemed  worth  while  to  begin  Mid-Channel  with  a  clever 
passage.  It  is  difficult  to  be  clever,  but  it  is  not  impossible. 
There  are  certain  things  that  must  be  told  to  the  audience, 
as  quickly  and  conveniently  as  possible,  at  the  outset  of  any 
play.  Why  not  tell  these  things  quite  frankly  and  get  them 
over  with?"  .  .  . 

The  subject  of  Mid-Channel  is  the  hopeless  marital  mis- 
understanding which  afflicts  in  middle  life  a  rugged,  rather 
brutal  business  man,  named  Theodore  Blundell,  and  his  wife, 
Zoe,  an   idle,  pleasure-loving  woman,  who  drifts  aimlessly 


284  MID-CHANNEL 

along  the  line  of  least  resistance.  At  the  outset  of  their 
married  life,  they  made  the  mistake  of  resolving  not  to  en- 
cumber themselves  with  children.  Now,  after  a  dozen  years, 
they  have  no  common  interests;  and  though  they  are  rather 
fond  of  each  other,  they  continually  bore  themselves  into 
nervous  tiffs  and  annoyed  recriminations.  The  first  act  ex- 
pounds this  basic  situation  distinctly  and  completely;  and 
at  the  curtain  fall,  there  is  a  flare-up  and  the  husband  leaves 
the  house. 

The  rest  of  the  play  happens  five  months  later.  The 
second  act  and  the  third  act  are  admirably  balanced — the  one 
exhibiting  the  effect  upon  the  wife,  the  other  the  effect  upon 
the  husband,  of  the  period  of  separation.  Each  has  become 
— to  use  a  phrase  of  their  own — "rather  a  rotter."  Zoe  has 
dallied  in  Italy  with  a  young  and  caddish  cub  to  whom  she 
has  succumbed  in  a  moment  of  weakness;  and  Theodore  has 
taken  up  with  a  mercenary  lady  notorious  for  a  succession 
of  divorces.  At  the  close  of  the  second  act,  Zoe  sends  her 
lover  away  and  insists  that  he  shall  marry  a  young  girl  who 
is  in  love  with  him ;  and  during  the  third  act,  Theodore  dis- 
misses the  merry  lady  of  many  men.  At  the  climax  of  the 
third  act,  Zoe  and  Theodore  are  brought  together  by  a 
mutual  friend  and  left  to  patch  up  the  fragments  of  their 
lives.  The  husband  admits  frankly  that  he  has  sinned,  and 
the  wife  forgives  him ;  but  when  she  adds  that  they  are  both 
sinners,  he  looks  upon  her  in  an  appalling  quietude  of  abso- 
lute estrangement,  and  then  sends  her  back  to  her  lover. 
She  arrives  at  the  latter's  rooms  to  find  that  he  has  already 
obeyed  her  behest  and  engaged  himself  to  marry  the  young 
girl  who  is  fond  of  him.  There  is,  beyond  the  windows,  a 
balcony  very  high  above  a  public  square;  and  from  this  Zoe 
casts  herself  to  the  pavement  below. 

The  ultimate  suicide  of  Zoe  Blundell  is  technically 
"planted"  by  her  very  first  speech  in  the  very  first  act.  Chat- 
ting about  the  weather  [and  what  topic  could  seem  more 
natural  for  an  unpremeditated  chat?]  Zoe  says,  "Why  is  it 


CRITICAL   PREFACE  285 

that  more  people  commit  suicide  in  summer  than  in  winter?" 
And  three  acts  later — at  the  very  conclusion  of  the  drama — 
Peter  Mottram  states,  "She  told  me  once  it  would  be  in  the 
winter  time !" 

This  repetition  recurs  as  an  echo  of  the  earlier  statement; 
and  a  consideration  of  this  single  point  calls  up  for  admira- 
tion the  "echo-system"  which  Pinero  has  established  through- 
out the  composition  of  this  play.  Every  detail  of  the  piece 
is  nicely  related  to  every  other;  and  many  passages  produce 
a  three-fold  effect: — first,  by  and  for  themselves;  second,  by 
reminiscence  of  something  that  has  preceded  them ;  and  third, 
by  anticipation  of  something  that  is  yet  to  come.  Consider- 
ing the  text  from  the  standpoint  of  this  three-fold  technical 
formula,  there  is  scarcely  a  wasted  line  in  the  entire  compo- 
sition. Everything  that  is  said  or  done  upon  the  stage  counts 
harmoniously  toward  a  common  purpose. 

The  underlying  thesis  of  Mid-Channel  is  indicated  very 
early  in  a  charming  off-hand  passage  in  which  Sir  Arthur 
pays  a  delicate  tribute  to  his  friend  and  colleague,  Sir  James 
Barrie.  Barrie  is,  obviously,  the  man  who  has  "the  power 
of  imagining  children — bringing  them  to  life!  Just  by  shut- 
ting the  door,  and  sitting  down  at  his  writing-table,  and 
saying  to  his  brain, 'Now,  then!  I'm  ready  for  them !"  The 
fact  that  the  one  thing  that  is  most  the  matter  with  the 
thwarted  Zoe  Blundell  is  that  she  had  agreed  with  her  hus- 
band, at  the  outset  of  their  married  life,  not  to  encumber 
herself  with  any  "brats  of  children,"  is  not  emphasised,  in 
all  its  poignancy,  until  the  climax  of  the  third  act  of  the 
drama;  but  it  is  subtly  indicated  in  this  early  passage  of  com- 
ment on  an  hypothetic  current  play  that  may  be  easily  iden- 
tified with  Peter  Pan. 

Students  of  technique  will  appreciate  particularly  the  cal- 
culated timeliness  accorded  to  Lenny  Ferris  and  to  Theo 
Blundell  for  their  first  entrances  upon  the  stage  before  the 
gathered  public.  The  actors  chosen  to  depict  each  of  these 
contrasted  characters  enjoy  the  opportunity  of  entering  upon 


286  MID-CHANNEL 

a  cue  that  has  been  cleverly  planned  to  stimulate  the  in- 
terest of  the  audience. 

The  title  of  Mid-Channel  is  contributed  by  a  raisonneur 
during  the  course  of  a  carefully  expository  passage  in  the 
initial  act.  The  Honorable  Peter  Mottram  is  the  most  in- 
gratiating of  Pinero's  long  series  of  predicateurs,  with  the 
possible  exception  of  Cayley  Drummle,  in  The  Second  Mrs. 
Tanqueray.  Peter  Mottram  is  emphatically  human,  and  is 
clearly  distinguished  in  character  from  the  author  of  the 
play,  although  he  expresses,  in  the  main,  the  author's  senti- 
ments in  regard  to  the  progress  of  the  action. 

In  Mid-Channel,  Sir  Arthur  indicates,  once  more,  his 
persistent  sense  of  the  tragedy  inherent  in  the  process  of  what 
is  commonly  called  "social  climbing."  The  Blundells,  in- 
spired with  an  overmastering  desire  to  "get  on,"  have  amassed 
a  lot  of  money;  but  their  original  vulgarity  has  merely 
been  accentuated  by  the  apparent  improvement  of  their 
social  station.  As  a  satirist  of  contemporary  society,  Pinero 
has  chosen,  as  his  most  recurrent  thesis,  the  theme  that  vul- 
garity is  innately  vulgar  and  that  nothing  can  be  done  to 
cure  it. 

In  recent  years,  as  well,  the  mind  of  Pinero  has  been  pre- 
occupied with  the  abiding  tragedy  of  middle  age,  which 
results  from  the  fact  that  the  virtuous  efforts  of  the  present 
cannot  possibly  eradicate  the  errors  of  the  past.  What  we 
are,  at  any  moment,  is  merely  the  sum-total  of  all  that  we 
have  ever  been;  and  people  who  are  caught,  like  the  Blun- 
dells, in  mid-channel,  cannot  escape  the  lingering  effects  of 
false  decisions  made  a  decade,  or  a  couple  of  decades,  in  the 
past.  This  is  the  reason  why  those  passages  which  wistfully 
refer  to  the  vanished  days  "up  north,"  when  the  characters 
were  merely  "getting  on,"  appeal  so  poignantly  to  the  aver- 
age auditor. 

The  fairness  of  characterisation  in  this  play  remains  re- 
markable to  the  disinterested  commentator.  Lenny  Ferris, 
for  example,  is  undeniably  a  cad;  yet  his  case  is  stated  by 


CRITICAL   PREFACE  287 

the  author  without  prejudice  against  him.  His  speeches  in 
the  seccfnd  act  are  irresistibly  appealing,  upon  purely  human 
grounds;  and,  throughout  the  troublous  progress  of  the  last 
act,  this  "unsympathetic"  person  shows  himself  to  be  a  veri- 
table gentleman. 

Pinero,  in  composing  Mid-Channel,  admitted  no  surrender 
to  the  predilections  of  the  theatre-going  public.  He  imagined 
certain  people  doing  certain  things,  and  told  the  truth  about 
them.  The  resultant  fabric  is  an  absolute  and  faultless 
masterpiece  of  structure.  It  is  solidly,  compactly  built.  No 
material  is  wasted:  every  line  and  every  gesture  seems  to 
count.  Every  detail  of  the  piece  is  nicely  related  to  every 
other;  and  many  passages  produce  a  three-fold  effect, — first 
by  immediate  interest,  second,  by  reminiscence,  and,  third,  by 
prophecy.  The  characters  are  analysed  with  a  thoroughness 
that  is  almost  terrible.  There  is  comparatively  little  object- 
ive action  in  the  piece;  there  is,  instead,  a  steady  gathering 
of  intense  internal  conflict.  The  dialogue  is  masterly  in  easy 
fluency, — crisp  and  pointed,  and  nervously  concise.  It  is  not 
at  all  excessive  to  assert  that  no  finer  dramatic  composition 
has  been  written  in  the  English  language  within  the  first 
two  decades  of  the  twentieth  century. 

C.  H. 


MID-CHANNEL 

A  PLAY,  IN  FOUR  ACTS 


THE  PERSONS  OF  THE  PLAY 

Theodore  Blundell 

The  Honourable  Peter  Mottram 

Leonard  Ferris 

Warren,  Servant  at  Lancaster  Gate 

Cole,  Servant  at  the  Flat  in  Cavendish  Square 

Rideout,  Mr.  Ferris's  Servant 

Upholsterers 

Zoe  Blundell 

Mrs.  Pierpoint 

Ethel  Pierpoint 

Mrs.  Annerly 

Lena 
The  scene  is  laid  in  London.     The  events  of  the  First  Act 
take  place  on  an  afternoon  in  January.     The  rest  of  the  action 
occurs  on  a  day  in  the  following  June. 


MID-CHANNEL 


Original  cast,  as  first  disclosed  at  the  St.  James's  Theatre, 

September  2nd,  1 909. 


Theodore  Blundell    . 

The  Hon.  Peter  Mottram 

Leonard  Ferris 

Warren  (Servant  at  Lan- 
caster Gate)      .... 

Cole  (Servant  at  the  Flat 
in  Cavendish  Square)   . 

Rideout  (Mr.  Ferris's  serv- 
ant) 


Upholsterers 

Zoe  Blundell 

Mrs.  Pierpoint 

Ethel  Pierpoint 

Mrs.  Annerly 

Lena 

A  Maidservant 


Mr.  Lyn  Harding 
Mr.  C.  M.  Lowne 
Mr.  Eric  Maturin 

Mr.  A.  E.  Drinkwater 

Mr.  Stuart  Dennison 

Mr.  Sydney  Hamilton 
Mr.  Oiven  Nares 
Mr.   T.  Weguelin 

Miss  Irene  Vanbrugh 
Miss  Kate  Serjeantson 
Miss  Rosalie  Toller 
Miss  Nina  Sevening 
Miss  Ruth  Maitland 
Miss  Faith  Celli 


MID-CHANNEL 


THE  FIRST  ACT 

The  scene  is  a  drawing-room,  decorated  and  furnished  in  the 
French  style.  In  the  wall  opposite  the  spectator  there  is 
a  door,  the  upper  part  of  which  is  glazed.  A  silk  curtain 
hangs  across  the  glazed  panels,  but  above  the  curtain 
there  is  a  view  of  the  corridor  beyond.  The  fireplace, 
where  a  bright  fire  is  burning,  is  in  the  wall  on  the  right. 
There  is  a  door  on  the  further  side  of  the  fireplace,  an- 
other on  the  nearer  side.  Both  these  doors  are  supposed 
to  lead  to  a  second  drawing-room. 

On  either  side  of  the  fireplace  there  is  an  arm-chair, 
and  on  the  further  side,  standing  out  in  the  room,  is  a 
j  ^.settee.  Some  illustrated  papers  of  the  popular  sort  are 
lying  upon  the  arm-chair  next  to  the  settee.  Behind 
the  settee  are  an  oblong  tablfdnd  a  chair".  In  the  middle 
of  the  room,  on  the  left  of  the  settee  and  facing  the  fire, 
is  another  arm-chair  j'  and  on  the  left  of  the  arm-chair  on 
the  nearer  side  of  the  fireplace  there  is  a  f  autcuil- stool. - 
A  writing-table,  with  a  chair  before  it,  stands  on  the  left- 
-v  hand  side  of  the  room,  and  among  the  objects  on  the 

zvriting-table  are  a  hand  mirror  and  some  photographs  in 
frames.  Other  pieces  of  furniture,  of  a  more  formal 
kind  than  those  already  specified,  fill  spaces  against  the 
ivalls.  One  of  these,  on  the  left  of  the  glazed  door,  is 
a  second  settee.-^ 

295 


296 


MID-CHANNEL 


[act  I 


The  roofy  is  lighted  only  by\the  blaze  of\the/jir\.  and 
the  corridor\il$o  is  in  semi-dar^rtess.  \/ 

[NOTE: — Throughout,  "right"  and    Left"  are  the^pectators' 
right  and  If  ft,  not  the  actor's.] 

[The  corridor  is  suddenly  lighted  up.     Then  Warren 

enters  at_the  glazed  door  and_switches  on  the  light 

in  the  room.     He  is  Jollowed  by   Mrs.  Pierpoint, 

a  pleasant-looking,  middle-aged  lady,  and  by  Ethel, 

fa  pretty  girl  of  five-and-twenty\ 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

[To  the  servant.]  You  are  sure  Mrs.  Blundell  will  be 
in  soon? 

Warren. 
She  said  half-past  four,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
It's  that  now,  isn't  it? 

Warren. 
Just  upon,  ma'am. 

[Warren  withdraws,  closing  door. 

Ethel. 
What  beautiful  rooms  these  are! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Money ! 

Ethel. 

I  always  feel  I'm  in  Paris  when  I'm  here,  in  some  smart 
house  in  the  Champs-Elysees — not  at  Lancaster  Gate.  What 
is  Mr.  Blundell,  mother? 


foe 

Ho 

Co 
C  S 

£h1< 


X  w 


tTh* 


A  stockbroker. 
Stockbroker? 


Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Ethel. 


act  i]  MID-CHANNEL  297 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Blundell — something-or-other — and    Mottram.      He   goc! 
to  the  City  every  morning. 

Ethel. 

I  know  that.  But  I've  never  heard  him,  or  Zoe,  mentior 
the  Stock  Exchange.  .  „;\ 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

\Sitting_on  the  settee  by  the  fireplace.}  Prosperous  stock 
brokers  and  their  wives^— those  who  move  in  a  decent  set — 
don't  mention  the  Stock  Exchange. 

Ethel. 

Then  that  nice  person,  Mr.  Mottram,  is  a  stockbrokei 
too? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Of  course,  dear.     He's  the  "Mottram"  of  the  firm. 

Ethel. 

And  he's  the  son  of  a  peer. 

A 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

Peers'  sons  are  common  enough  in  the  City  now-a-days- 

and  peers,  for  that  matter. 


/ 


. 


Ethel. 

[Moving  to  t1i£_ fireplace  and  wanning  her  hantls.]     Zoe  is 
a  doctor's  daughter. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

Has  she  given  you  leave  to  call  her  Zoe? 

Ethel. 
Yes,  last  week — asked  me  to.    I'm  so  glad ;  I've  taken  such 
a  liking  to  her. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

She  was  a  Miss  Tucker.     Her  father  practised  in  New 
Cavendish  Street.     He  was  a  great  gout  man. 


298  MID-CHANNEL  [act  i 

Ethel. 

You  are  full  of  information,  mother. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Emma  Lawton  was  giving  me  the  whole  history  of  the 
Blundells  at  lunch  to-day.     She  has  money,  of  her  own. 

Ethel. 
Zoe? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

Dr.  Tucker  left  sixty  or  seventy  thousand  pounds,  and  she 
came  in  for  it  all.     But  they'd  got  on  before  then. 

Ethel. 
H'm!    There  are  stockbrokers  and  stockbrokers,  I  suppose. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

Straight  and  crooked,  as  in  every  other  business  or  pro- 
fession. 

Ethel. 

I  do  think,  though,  that  a  girl  in  Zoe's  position  might  have 
chosen  somebody  slightly  more  refined  than  Mr.  Blundell. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

What's  wrong  with  him?     He's  extremely   amiable  and 
inoffensive. 

Ethel. 
Amiable! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

He  strikes  me  as  being  so. 

Ethel. 

I    don't   call    it   particularly   amiable   or  inoffensive   in   a 
husband  to  be  as  snappy  with  his  wife  as  he  is  with  Zoe. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Snappy  ? 


act  i]  MID-CHANNEL  299 

Ethel. 
Irritable — impatient. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Oh,  I  dare  say  there's  an  excellent  understanding  between 
them.     They've  been  married  a  good  many  years. 

Ethel. 
Thirteen,  she's  told  me. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Married  people  are  allowed  to  be  out  of  humor  with  each 
other  occasionally. 

Ethel. 
A  considerable  allowance  must  be  made  for  Mr.  Blundell, 
I'm  afraid. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

You're  prejudiced,  Ethel.     I've  seen  her  just  as  snappy, 
as  you  term  it,  with  him. 

Ethel. 
You  can't  blame  her,  if  she's  provoked. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Nor   him,    if   he's   provoked.     The   argument   cuts   both 

ways 

Ethel. 
[Listening.]      Sssh! 

[Zoe,  a  charming,  animated,  bright-eyed  woman,  wear- 
ing her  hat  and  some  costly  furs,  enters  quickly  at  the 
glazed  door. 

Zoe. 
Delightful! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

[Rising.]     Your  servant  insisted  on  our  coming  up. 


300  MID-CHANNEL  [act  i 

ZOE. 

[Shaking  hands  with  Mrs.  Pierpoint.]  If  he  hadn't 
I'd  have  wrung  his  neck.  [Kissing  Ethel.]  How  are  you, 
dear?  [Stripping  off  her  gloves.]  The  weather!  Isn't  it 
filthy!  Do  you  remember  what  the  sun's  like?  I  had  the 
blinds  drawn  all  over  the  house  at  eleven  o'clock  this  morn- 
ing. What's  the  good  of  trying  to  make-believe  it's  day? 
[Taking  off  her  coat.}  Do  sit  down.  Ugh!  Why  is  it 
that  more  people  commit  suicide  in  summer  than  in  winter? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[Resuming  her  seat  on  the  settee  by  the  fire.}     Do  they? 

Ethel. 
[Sitting    upon    the   fauteuil-stool.]      Why,    yes,    mother; 
what-do-you-call-them  ? — statistics — prove  it. 

Zoe. 

[Throwing  her  coat  and  gloves  upon  the  settee  at  the  back 
and  unpinning  her  hat.}  You'll  see,  when  I  put  an  end  to 
myself,  it  will  be  in  the  winter  time. 


Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

My  dear ! 

Ethel. 

Zoe! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

If  you  are  in 

this 

frame  of  mind,  why  don't  you  pack  your 

trunks  and  fly? 

Zoe. 

Fly? 

Ethel. 

Mother  means  cut  it. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Ethel! 


act  i]  MID-CHANNEL  301 

ZOE. 

[Tbssing  her  hat  on  to  the  settee  and  taking  up  the  hand' 
mirror  from  the  writing-table  and  adjusting  her  hair.] 
Don't  scold  her;  she  picks  up  her  slang  from  me. 

Ethel. 
Evil  communications ! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
I  mean,  go  abroad  for  a  couple  of  months — Egypt 


Ethel. 
Mother,  how  horrid  of  you!     I  should  miss  her  terribly. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

Cairo — Assouan 

Zoe. 

[Looking  into  the  hand-glass  steadily.]  That's  funny.  I 
have  been  thinking  lately  of  "cutting  it." 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
But  I  suppose  it  would  have  to  be  without  your  busy  hus- 
band. 

Zoe. 

[Replacing  the  mirror.]  Yes,  it  would  be  without  Theo. 
[Turning  to  Mrs.  Pierpoint  and  Ethel  and  rattling  on 
again.]  Well!  How  have  you  been  amusing  yourselves? 
You  wretches,  you  haven't  been  near  me  since  Monday,  either 
of  you.    Done  anything — seen  anything? 

Ethel. 
Nothing. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[To  Zoe.]      If  you  re  under  the  weather,  there's  some 
excuse  for  me. 


3o2  MID-CHANNEL  [act  i 

ZOE. 
[Walking  about  restlessly.}  Oh,  but  I  will  keep  moving, 
though  the  heavens  fall.  I've  been  to  the  theatre  every  night 
this  week,  and  supped  out  afterwards.  They've  opened  such 
a  ripping  restaurant  in  Jermyn  Street.  [Pausing.]  You 
haven't  seen  the  new  play  at  the  St.  Martin's,  then? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
No. 

Ethel. 
I  want  to,  badly. 

Zoe. 
I'll   take  you.     We'll   make   up   a  party.      [Scribbling  a 
memorandum  at  the  writing-table.}     I'll  tell  Lenny  Ferris  to 
get  seats. 

Ethel. 
Good  business! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Ethel! 

Zoe. 

It's  all  about  children — kiddies.  There  are  the  sweetest 
little  tots  in  it.  Two  especially — a  tiny,  round-eyed  boy  and 
a  mite  of  a  girl  with  straw-coloured  hair — you  feel  you  must 
clamber  on  to  the  stage  and  hug  them.    You  feel  you  must! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Aren't  there  any  grown-ups? 

Zoe. 
[Dropping  into  the  arm-chair  facing  the  fire.]     Oh,  yes; 
they  bore  me. 

Ethel. 

I  was  reading  the  story  to  you,  mother 

Zoe. 

The  story's  no  account — it's  the  kiddies.  The  man  who 
wrote  the  thing  must  be  awfully  fond  of  children.     I  wonder 


act  i]  MID-CHANNEL  303 

whether  he  has  any  little  'uns.  If  he  hasn't,  it's  of  no  con- 
sequence to  him;  he  can  imagine  them.  What  a  jolly  gift! 
Fancy!  To  have  the  power  of  imagining  children — bringing 
them  .to  life!  Just  by  shutting  the  door,  and  sitting  down  at 
your  writing-table,  and  saying  to  your  brain,  "Now,  then! 

I'm  ready  for  them !"     [Breaking  off.]     Ring  the  bell, 

Ethel.  [Ethel  rises,  and,  going  to  the  fireplace,  rings  the 
bell.]     Let's  have  tea. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

I'm  afraid  we  can't  stay  for  tea.     I've  promised  to  be  at 
old  Miss  Fremantle's  at  five  o'clock.     Ethel 

Ethel. 
Yes,  mother? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Go  down-stairs  for  a  few  minutes.     I  want  a  little  private 
conversation  with  Mrs.  Blundell. 

Ethel. 
[Surprised.]      Private  conversation! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
If  she  won't  think  me  too  troublesome. 

Zoe. 
[Rising   and   opening   the   nearer  door   on    the   right — to 
Ethel.]     Come  in  here.    There's  a  lovely  fire.     [Disappear- 
ing].   I'll  switch  the  light  on. 

Ethel. 
[Following  Zoe — at  the  door.]     What  is  it  about,  mother? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[Rising.]     Now,  don't  be  inquisitive,  Ethel. 


3o4  MID-CHANNEL  [act  i 

Zoe. 
[From  the  adjoining  room.]     Come  along! 

[Ethel  goes  into  the  next  room.    Warren  enters  at 
the  glazed  door. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[To  Warren.]     Mrs.  Blundell  rang  for  tea. 

Warren. 

Very  good,  ma'am. 

[Warren  withdraws  as  Zoe  returns. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
We  sha'n't  be  heard? 

Zoe. 
[Closing  the  door.]     No. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
It's  really  most  improper  of  me  to  bother  you  in  this  way. 

Zoe. 
[Advancing  to  Mrs.  Pierpoint.]     Can  I  be  of  any  use 
to  you? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

Well,  yes,  you  can.    You  can  give  me — what  shall  I  call 

it? — a  hint 

Zoe. 

[Sitting  on  the  fauteuil-stool.]     A  hint? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

On  a  subject  that  concerns  Ethel.  [Sitting  in  the  chair 
facing  the  fire.]  We're  quite  new  friends  of  yours,  dear 
Mrs.  Blundell — is  it  six  weeks  since  we  dined  at  the  Dar- 

rells' ? 

Zoe. 

There  or  thereabouts. 


act  i]  MID-CHANNEL  305 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

A  fortnight  or  so  before  Christmas,  wasn't  it?  But  my 
girl  has  formed  a  great  attachment  to  you,  and  I  fancy  you 
are  inclined  to  be  interested  in  her. 

Zoe. 
Rather!    She  and  I  are  going  to  be  tremendous  pals. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

That's  splendid.  Now,  don't  laugh  at  me  for  my  extreme 
cautiousness,  if  you  can  help  it. 

Zoe. 
Cautiousness  ? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Tell  me — as  one  woman  to  another — do  you  consider  it 
advisable  for  Ethel  to  see  much  of  Mr.  Ferris? 

Zoe. 
Advisable? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Oh,  I've  no  doubt  he's  a  highly  respectable  young  man, 
as  young  men  go — I'm  not  implying  anything  to  the  con- 
trary  

Zoe. 
Is  she  seeing  much  of  Mr.  Ferris? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
She  meets  him  here. 

Zoe. 

Ah,  yes. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

And  he  has  suddenly  taken  to  dropping  in  to  tea  with  us 
pretty  regularly;  and  twice  this  week — twice — he  has  sent 
her  some  magnificent  flowers — magnificent. 

Zoe. 
Dear  old  Lenny! 


3o6  MID-CHANNEL  [act  i 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
There's  something  in  his  manner,  too — one  can't  describe 

it 

ZOE. 

[A  little  ruefully.]     Ha!     Ha,  ha,  ha! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
I  am  amusing  you. 

Zoe. 

No,  no.  I  beg  your  pardon.  [Rising  and  going  to  the 
fire.]     Somehow  I've  never  pictured  Lenny  with  a  wife. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

It  may  be  only  an  excess  of  politeness  on  his  part;  there 
mayn't  be  the  least  foundation  for  my  suspicions. 

Zoe. 

I  suppose  every  married  woman  believes  that  her  bachelor 
chums  will  remain  bachelors. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

And  pray,  dear  Mrs.  Blundell,  don't  take  me  for  a  match- 
making mother.  I've  no  desire  to  lose  my  girl  yet  awhile, 
I  assure  you.  But  I  want  to  know,  naturally — it's  my  duty 
to  know — exactly  who  and  what  are  the  men  who  come  into 
my  drawing-room. 

Zoe. 
Why,  naturally. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

And  it  occurred  to  me  that,  as  we  made  Mr.  Ferris's  ac- 
quaintance in  your  house,  you  wouldn't  object  to  giving  me, 
as  I  put  it,  the  merest  hint 

Zoe. 
Ethel — what  about  her?     Does  she  like  him? 


act  i]  MID-CHANNEL  307 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

It's  evident  she  doesn't  dislike  him.  But  she's  not  a  girl 
who  would  be  in  a  hurry  to  confide  in  anybody  over  a  love 
affair,  riot  even  in  her  mother.  True,  there  may  be  nothing 
to  confide,  in  the  present  case.  I  repeat,  I  may  be  altogether 
mistaken.     At  the  same  time 

Zoe. 
You  wish  me  to  advise  you  as  to  whether  Lenny  Ferris 
should  be  encouraged. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

Whether  he  should  be  cold-shouldered — I  prefer  that  ex- 
pression. 

Zoe. 

Very  well;  I'll  furnish  you  with  his  character,  dear  Mrs. 
Pierpoint,  with  pleasure. 

[Leonard  Ferris,  a  fresh,  boyish  young  man,  enters  at 
the  glazed  door,  with  the  air  of  one  who  is  at  home. 

Leonard. 
Hallo! 

Zoe. 

[Just  as  carelessly.]     Hallo,  Len! 

Leonard. 
[Shaking  hands  with  Mrs.  Pierpoint.]     How  d'ye  do? 
How's  Miss  Ethel? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[Inclining  her  head.}     Thank  you 

Leonard. 
[Rubbing  his  hands  together.]     Here's  a  day! 

Zoe. 
[Taking  his  hand.]     Your  hands  are  frozen. 


308  MID-CHANNEL  [act  i 

Leonard. 
[Going  to  the  fire.]     I  drove  my  car  up  here. 

Zoe. 
You're  crazy.     [Sitting  on  the  settee  by  the  fire.]     You 
never  rang  me  up  this  morning,  to  ask  if  I  was  tired. 

Leonard. 
Wire  was  engaged.    First-rate  night,  last  night. 

Zoe. 
[Languidly.]     The  summit.    Lenny 


Leonard. 
Eh? 

Zoe. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint  and  I  are  talking  secrets.     Go  into  the 
next  room  for  a  second. 

Leonard. 
[Genially.]     Sha'n't  if  there  isn't  a  fire. 

Zoe. 

Of  course  there's  a  fire.    Things  ain't  so  bad  in  the  City 
as  all  that. 

Leonard. 
[At  the  nearer  door  on  the  right.]    Any  tea? 

Zoe. 
By-and-by.    You'll  find  somebody  in  there  you  know. 

Leonard. 
[Going  into  the  room.]    Who? 

Zoe. 

[Calling  out.]      Shut  the  door.      [The  door  is  closed.] 
Talk  of  the ! 


act  i]  MID-CHANNEL  309 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

Bless  me,  I  hope  not! 

Zoe. 

No,  I  shouldn't  turn  him  in  there  at  this  moment  if  he 
wasn't  what  he  is — the  dearest  boy  in  the  world — should  I  ? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

Boy ? 

Zoe. 

He's  thirty-two.  A  man  of  two-and-thirty  is  a  boy  to  a 
woman  of — to  an  old  married  woman.  He's  the  simplest, 
wholesomest,  best-natured  fellow  living.  If  you  had  him  for 
a  son-in-law,  you'd  be  lucky. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
It's  a  relief  to  me,  at  any  rate 

Zoe. 
And  I  should  lose  one  of  my  tame  robins. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Tame  robins? 

Zoe. 

[Rising  and  going  over  to  the  writing-table  and  taking  up 
two  of  the  photographs.]  I  always  have  his  photo  on  my 
table — his  and  Peter  Mottram's.  Peter  Mottram  is  my 
husband's  partner — you've  met  him  here.  I  call  them  my 
tame  robins.  They  come  and  eat  crumbs  off  my  window-sill. 
I've  no  end  of  tame  robins — men  chums — but  these  two  are 
my  specials.  [Replacing  the  photographs.]  Well !  If  Lenny 
ever  goes,  I  shall  have  to  promote  Harry  Estridge  or  Jim 
Mallandain  or  Cossy  Rawlings. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[Who  has  risen  and  followed  Zoe  to  the  writing-table.] 
But  why  should  Mr.  Ferris  ever  "go"  completely? 


3io  MID-CHANNEL  [act  i 

ZOE. 
[Smiling.]     Oh,  when  a  robin  marries,  Jenny  doesn't  share 
him  with  another  wren.     Not  much! 

[Warren  enters  at  the  glazed  door  with  a  female  serv- 
ant. They  carry  in  the  tea  and  lay  it  upon  the  table 
behind  the  settee  by  the  fire. 

Zoe. 
[After  glancing  at  the  servants — dropping  her  voice.]     I'd 
better  finish  drawing  up  the  prospectus,  while  I'm  at  it. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Prospectus? 

Zoe. 

He's  got  two  thousand  a  year.  Both  his  people  are  dead. 
There's  an  aunt  in  the  country  who  may  leave  him  a  bit 
extra;  but  she's  a  cantankerous  old  cat  and,  in  my  opinion, 
charity'll  have  every  sou.    Still,  two  thousand  a  year 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

I  oughtn't  to  hear  any  more.  But  you  understand,  don't 
you ? 

Zoe. 

Perfectly.  And  he  lives  in  a  comfy  little  flat  behind  the 
Albert  Hall  and  is  mad  on  motor-cars.  He's  invented  a 
wonderful  wheel  which  is  to  give  the  knock  to  pneumatics. 
If  anything  will  bring  him  to  ruin,  that  will.  [Walking 
away  towards  the  tea-table  laughingly.]     There! 

Warren. 

Tea  is  served,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

[To  Zoe,  who  returns  to  her.]  I'm  exceedingly  obliged 
to  you.    You  won't  breathe  a  word  to  Ethel? 


act  i]  MID-CHANNEL  3" 

ZOE. 

Not  a  syllable.     It  would  break  my  heart,  but  I  hope  it'll 

come  off,  for  her  sake. 

* 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

She's  a  sweet,  sensible  child. 

Zoe. 
And  as  for  him,  I'll  tell  you  this  for  your  comfort — I'm 
honestly  certain  that  Lenny  Ferris  would  be  the  sort  of  hus- 
band that  lasts. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
That  lasts?     What  do  you  mean? 

Zoe. 
Oh — never  mind.      [Gaily.]      Tea!      [The  servants  have 
withdrawn.    She  runs  across  to  the  further  door  on  the  right, 
opens  it,  and  calls.~\    Tea!    [Seating  herself  at  the  tea-table.] 
Are  you  firm  about  going  on? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
It's  Lizzie  Fremantle's  birthday.     She's  Ethel's  godmother. 
[To  Ethel,  who  enters  with  Leonard.]     Are  you  ready, 
Ethel? 

Ethel. 
[To  Mrs.  Pierpoint.]     Must  we? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

Now,  my  dear ! 

Zoe. 

[To  Leonard.]     Lenny,  you've  got  to  get  tickets  for  the 
St.  Martin's  and  take  the  whole  crowd  of  us. 

Leonard. 
[With  a  wry  face.]     That  kids'  play  again! 


312  MID-CHANNEL  [act  i 

ZOE. 

Very  well ;  Peter  will  do  it. 

Leonard. 
No,  no ;  right  you  are. 

Zoe. 
I  stand. 

Leonard. 
Rot! 

Zoe. 

Then   Peter  has  the  job.      [To   the  ladies.]      We'll  ask 
Peter  Mottram  to  be  one  of  us  anyhow. 

Leonard. 
The  supper's  mine,  then. 

Zoe. 
Anything   for   peace.      [Shaking  hands  with    Mrs.   PlER- 
POINT,  who  comes  to  her.]     Monday  night? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
You're  a  great  deal  too  good. 

[Leonard  has  opened  the  glazed  door  and  is  now  in 
the  corridor.    Mrs.  Pierpoint  joins  him. 

Leonard. 
[To  Mrs.  Pierpoint,  as  they  disappear.]     Got  a  vehicle? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

My  venerable  four-wheeler — the  oldest  friend  I  have  in 

London 

Ethel. 

[To  Zoe,  who  rises.]     What  did  mother  have  to  say  to 
you  so  mysteriously? 

Zoe. 
Er — she  wants  me  to  consult  Theo  about  something. 


act  i]  MID-CHANNEL  313 

Ethel. 

Her  railway  shares? 

Zoe. 
[Nodding.]     H'm. 

Ethel. 
[Satisfied.]     Oh?    Good-bye. 

Zoe. 
When  are  we  to  have  a  nice  long  jaw  together — just  you 
and  1? 

Ethel. 

Mother  won't  let  me  out  alone  in  these  fogs. 

Zoe. 
Fog  or  no  fog,  try  and  shunt  her  to-morrow. 

Ethel. 
I'll  do  my  best. 

Zoe. 
I'll  be  in  all  the  morning.     [  They  turn  their  heads  towards 
the  door j  listening.]     Lenny's  whistling  for  you. 

Ethel. 

Mother ! 

[They  kiss  affectionately  and  Ethel  hurries  away. 
Zoe  resumes  her  seat  at  the  tea-table  and  pours  out 
tea.  Presently  Leonard  returns  and,  after  closing 
the  door,  comes  to  her. 

Leonard. 

[Cheerfully.]      It's    beginning   to    sleet    now.      Ton    my 

soul !     [She  hands  him  a  cup  of  tea  in  silence.    He  looks 

at  her  inquiringly.]     Anything  wrong,  Zoe? 

Zoe. 
[With  an  air  of  indifference.]     No. 


3H  MID-CHANNEL  [act  i 

Leonard. 
Positive  ? 

Zoe. 

[In   the   same   tone,   offering   him    a   plate   of   bread-and- 
butter.]     Quite. 

Leonard. 

[Taking   a  slice.]      Thought   there'd   been   another   row, 
perhaps. 

Zoe. 

[Putting  the  plate  of  bread-and-butter  aside  and  taking  up 
her  cup  and  saucer.]     Hell  of  a  row  last  night. 

Leonard. 
Last  night? 

Zoe. 
This  morning,  rather. 

Leonard. 

When  you  came  home? 

Zoe. 

[Sipping  her  tea.]     After  you  and  Peter  brought  me  home. 

Leonard. 
What  over? 

Zoe. 
Nothing. 

Leonard. 

[Drinking.]      Must  have  been  over  something. 

Zoe. 
Oh,  some  trifle — as  usual. 

Leonard. 
Too  bad  of  Theo — damned  sight  too  bad. 

Zoe. 
I  dare  say  it  was  as  much  my  fault  as  his. 


act  i]  MID-CHANNEL  315 

Leonard. 
[Hotly.]      It's  a  cursed  shame! 

ZOE. 

Drop  it,  Len.     [Handing  him  a  dish  of  cakes.]     Cake? 

Leonard. 

[Putting   his   empty   cup   down   before   her  and  taking   a 
cake.]     Ta. 

ZOE. 

[Pouring  out  another  cup   of  tea  for  him.]      First  time 
you've  drunk  tea  with  me  this  week.     Honoured! 

Leonard. 
Sorry. 

Zoe. 

M'yes — [giving  him  his  tea]  sorry  that  Mrs.  Pierpoint  and 
Ethel  can't  receive  you  this  afternoon. 

Leonard. 

[After   a   pause,    uncomfortably.]      Mrs.    Pierpoint   been 
telling  you  anything  about  me? 

Zoe. 
Mentioned  that  you  frequently  turn  up  in  Sloane  Street 
at  tea-time. 

Leonard. 

There's  a  man  down  that  way  who's  frightfully  gone  on 
my  wheel. 

Zoe. 
[Drinking.]      Indeed? 

Leonard. 
My  great  difficulty,  you  know,  is  to  get  it  on  to  the  market. 

Zoe. 
India-rubber  people  opposing  you,  I  expect. 


^ 


316  MID-CHANNEL  [act  i 

Leonard. 
Tooth  and  nail. 

Zoe. 

[Nibbling  a  cake.]     And  the  man  who  lives  Sloane  Street 

way ? 

Leonard. 
Very  influential  chap. 

Zoe. 
Capitalist  ? 

Leonard. 
Millionaire. 

Zoe. 

H'm!  And  when  you're  down  Sloane  Street  way,  do  you 
take  your  flowers  to  Miss  Pierpoint,  or  does  your  florist  send 
them? 

[Again  there  is  silence.  He  lays  his  cup  down,  leaves 
her  side,  and  produces  his  cigarette-case.  Sticking  a 
cigarette  between  his  lips,  he  is  about  to  close  the  case 
when  she  rises  and  takes  a  cigarette  from  it.  She 
moves  to  the  fireplace,  lighting  her  cigarette  with  a 
match  from  a  box  attached  to  a  gold  chatelaine  hang- 
ing from  her  waist.  He  seats  himself  in  the  chair 
facing  the  fire  and  lights  his  own  cigarette. 

Leonard. 
[Moodily.]     I  don't  want  to  marry,  Zoe. 

Zoe. 
There's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't,  if  you  feel  disposed 
to;  but  you  needn't  be  a  sneak  about  it. 

Leonard. 
The  aunt's  pitching  into  me  again  like  billy-oh.  High 
time  I  settled  down — high  time  I  became  a  reputable  mem- 
ber of  society!  I  ask  you,  what  the  deuce  have  I  ever  done 
that's  particularly  disreputable?  Then  come  two  verses  of 
Scripture 


act  i]  MID-CHANNEL  317 

ZOE. 

[Advancing  to  him.]     She  hasn't  ordered  you  to  be  under- 
handed with  your  best  friends,  I  assume? 

* 

Leonard. 
I'm  not  underhanded. 

Zoe. 
Why  this  concealment,  then  ? 

Leonard. 
There's  no  concealment ;  there's  nothing  to  conceal ;  I  give 
you  my  word  there  isn't.     I — I  haven't  made  up  my  mind 
one  way  or  the  other. 

Zoe. 

[Witheringly.]     You're  weighing  the  question! 

Leonard. 
Very  well;  I'm  weighing  it,  if  you  like.  [Flinging  the 
end  of  his  match  into  the  fireplace  and  jumping  up.]  Con- 
found it  all!  Mayn't  a  man  send  a  basket  or  two  of  rotten 
flowers  to  a  girl  without  having  his  special  license  bought  for 
him  by  meddling  people? 

Zoe. 
Thank  you. 

Leonard. 

I  don't  mean  you,  Zoe.  You  know  I  don't  mean  you. 
[Pacing  the  room.]  Ethel — Miss  Pierpoint — is  a  charming 
girl,  but  I'm  no  more  in  love  with  her  than  I  am  with  my 
old  hat. 

Zoe. 

Then  you  oughtn't  to  pay  her  marked  attention. 

Leonard. 
I'm  not  paying  her  marked  attention.      [Zoe  shrugs  her 
shoulders.]      If  Mrs.  Pierpoint  says  I've  been  making  love 
to  her  daughter 


318  MID-CHANNEL  [act  i 

ZOE. 
She  has  said  nothing  of  the  kind. 

Leonard. 

{Sitting  in  the  chair  before  the  writing-table,  in  a  huff.} 

That's  all  right.     Pity  she  can't  hold  her  tongue  over  trifles. 

[There  is  another  pause.      Then,  partly  kneeling  upon 

the  chair  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  resting  her 

elbow  on  the  back  of  it,  Zoe  softens. 

ZOE. 

[Making  rings  with  her  cigarette  smoke.]  Don't  be  wild, 
Len.  I  was  only  vexed  with  you  for  not  consulting  me.  It 
would  hurt  my  feelings  dreadfully  if  you  got  engaged  to  any- 
body on  the  sly.  Len — [He  turns  to  her,  but  with  his  head 
down.]  She  is  a  charming  girl.  I'm  not  surprised  at  your 
being  spoons  on  her.  If  I  were  a  man,  she's  just  the  sort  of 
girl  I'd  marry,  if  I  were  on  the  look-out  for  a  wife. 

Leonard. 

[In  a  low  voice.]  Perhaps  I  have  made  myself  a  bit  of 
an    ass   over    her,    Zoe.      [She    laughs   lightly.      He    raises 

his  eyes.]    Zoe 

Zoe. 
Well? 

Leonard. 

[Gazing  at  Zoe.]  Do  you  know  that  she  reminds  me 
very  often  of  you? 

Zoe. 
She !    I'm  old  enough  to  be  her  grandmother. 

Leonard. 

Oh,  hang  that!  She's  got  hold  of  a  lot  of  your  odd  little 
tricks — a  lot  of  'em. 

Zoe. 
She's  been  with  me  a  goodish  deal  lately. 


act  i]  MID-CHANNEL  319 

Leonard. 

That's  it;  and  she  has  the  most  enormous  admiration  for 
you — enormous. 

Zoe. 
She's  a  dear. 

Leonard. 

{Gently  hitting  his  knee  with  his  fist.]  I've  thought  of 
all  that  when  I've  been  worrying  it  out  in  my  mind. 

Zoe. 
Thought  of  all  what? 

Leonard.   • 
That  you'd  always  be  pals,  you  two — close  pals. 

Zoe. 
If  she  became  Mrs.  Lenny? 

Leonard. 
[Nodding.]      And  so,   if   I   did  screw  myself   up   to — to 
speaking  to  her,  it  wouldn't  make  the  least  difference  to  our 
friendship — yours  and  mine. 

Zoe. 
No  difference! 

Leonard. 

I  should  still  be  your  tame  robin. 

Zoe. 
Ah,  no;  don't  make  that  mistake,  Len. 

Leonard. 

Mistake? 

Zoe. 

[Shaking  her  head.]  It  never  works.  I've  seen  similar 
cases  over  and  over  again.  There's  any  amount  of  gush  at 
the  start,  between  the  young  wife  and  the  husband's  women- 
pals;  but  the  end  is  always  the  same. 


320  MID-CHANNEL  [act  i 

Leonard. 
The  end  ? 

Zoe. 
Gradually  the  wife  draws  the  husband  away.    She  manages 
it  somehow.    We  have  a  gift  for  it.     I  did  it  myself  when  I 
married  Theo. 

Leonard. 
[Rising  and  walking  about.]     If  I  believed  what  you  say, 
Zoe,  I'd  never  size-up  a  girl  with  a  view  to  marrying  as  long 
as  I  live. 

Zoe. 
[Teasingly.]     You're  a  vain  creature.    I've  plenty  of  other 
boys,  Len,  to  fill  your  place. 

Leonard. 
[Not  heeding  her.]      If  things  were  smoother  with  you 
and  Theo,  one  mightn't  hesitate  half  as  much. 

Zoe. 

There's  Peter  Mottram,  Gus  Hedmont,  Harry  Estridge, 
Claud  Lowenstein 

Leonard. 

As  it  is — Great  Scot! — I'm  a  brute  even  to  think  of  tak- 
ing the  risk. 

Zoe. 

Cossy  Rawlings,  Jim  Mallandain,  Robby  Relf 

Leonard. 

[Stopping  in  his  walk.]  Yes,  but  my  friendship's  more 
to  you  than  the  friendship  of  most  of  those  other  fellows,  I 
should  hope. 

Zoe. 

[Making  a  grimace  at  him.]     Not  a  scrap. 


act  i]  MID-CHANNEL  32» 

Leonard. 
[His  brow  darkening, ,]     You  told  me  once  I  was  your 
favourite. 

Zoe. 
My  chaff;  I've  no  favourite. 

Leonard. 

[Laying  the  remains  of  his  cigarette  upon  a  little  bronze 
tray  on  the  writing-table.]  Peter's  a  trump,  and  Harry  Est- 
ridge  and  Rawlings  are  sound  enough;  but  I  often  feel  I'd 
like  to  knock  young  Lowenstein's  teeth  down  his  fat  throat. 

Zoe. 
[Blowing  her  smoke  in  his  direction  as  he  comes  to  her  and 
stands  before  her.]     You  get  married  and  mind  your  own 
concerns. 

Leonard. 
Zoe,  I  hate  to  see  men  of  that  class  buzzing  round  you. 

Zoe. 
[Mockingly.]     Do  you! 

Leonard. 

Look  here!  Whatever  happens  between  you  and  Theo  in 
the  future,  you'll  never  let  anything  or  anybody  drive  you 
off  the  rails,  will  you? 

Zoe. 

[Frowning.]     Len! 

Leonard. 

I  couldn't  stand  it;  [putting  his  hands  upon  her  shoulders.] 
I  tell  you  straight,  it  'ud  break  me.     [Passionately,  his  grip 

tightening.]     Zoe ! 

[She  shakes  herself  free  and  backs  atvay  from  him,  con- 
fronting him  with  a  flushed  face. 


322  MID-CHANNEL  [act  i 

ZOE. 

[Quietly. .]     Don't  be  silly.     [Brushing  her  hair  from  her 
forehead.]     If  ever  you  do  that  again,  Len,  I'll  box  your  ears. 
[The  Honble.   Peter  Mottram,  a  spruce,  well-pre- 
served man  of  fifty,  enters  at  the  glazed  door. 

Peter. 
[Cheerily.]     Good  mornin' — or  whatever  it  is. 

Zoe. 

[Dropping  the  end  of  her  cigarette  into  the  grate.]     That 
you,  Peter? 

Leonard. 

[Surlily.]      I'm  just  off. 

Peter. 
Don't  apologize. 

Leonard. 

[At  the  glazed  door,  to  Peter.]     See  you  later. 

[He  goes  out. 
Peter. 

[To  Zoe.]     What's  the  matter  with  the  youth? 

Zoe. 

[With  a  shrug.]  Got  the  hump  over  something.  [Facing 
him.]     Tea? 

Peter. 

No,  thanks.  [Sitting  in  the  chair  in  the  middle  of  the 
room.]  And  how  are  you  to-day,  my  dear  lady?  [She 
makes  a  wry  mouth,  sighs,  and  throws  herself  disconsolately 
upon  the  settee  by  the  fire.  He  nods  intelligently.]  Yes, 
sorry  to  hear  you  and  old  Theo  have  had  another  bad  fall- 
out. 

Zoe. 

[Arranging  a  pillow  for  her  head.]  I  guessed  he'd  carry 
it  all  to  you. 


act  i]  MID-CHANNEL  323 

Peter. 
Shockin'ly  grieved,  I  am. 

Zoe. 
He  began  this  one. 

Peter. 

By  blowin'  you  up  for  goin'  on  the  frisk  every  night. 

Zoe. 
And   I   answered  him   back.      I  was   dogweary.      It   was 
nearly  one  o'clock.    He  needn't  have  jumped  upon  me  almost 
before  I'd  taken  the  key  out  of  the  lock. 

Peter. 
[Demurely.']      I  also  have  been  reproved,  for  aidin'  and 
abettin'. 

Zoe. 

Serves  you  jolly  well  right.  Why  didn't  you  and  Lenny 
come  in  with  me,  you  cowards?  That  might  have  saved  a 
squabble.     I  begged  you  to  have  a  whiskey. 

Peter. 
[After  a  brief  pause.]     Zoe 


Zoe. 

[In  a  muffled  voice,  her  head  in  the  pillow.]     Oh,  be  kind 
to  me,  Peter. 

Peter. 

Why  do  you  sally  forth  night  after  night? 

Zoe. 
Because  I  must. 

Peter. 
Must? 

Zoe. 
I've  got  the  fidgets. 


324  MID-CHANNEL  [act  i 

Peter. 

I  get  the  fidgets  at  times,  in  bed.    D'ye  know  how  I  cure 
'em? 

ZOE. 

Of  course  I  don't. 

Peter. 
I  lie  perfectly  stiff  and  still;  I  make  myself  lie  perfectly 
still.     I  ivon't  stir.    I  say  to  myself,  "Peter,  you  shan't  twist 
or  turn."    And  I  win. 

Zoe. 
How  easy  it  is  to  talk!     I  defy  you  to  control  yourself 
if  you're  shut  up  with  a  person  who  goads  you  to  despera- 
tion. 

Peter. 
Theo? 

Zoe. 
[Beating  her  pillow.]     How  can  I  stay  at  home  and  eat 
a  long  dinner,  and  spend  an  entire  evening,  alone  with  Theo? 
We're  not  entertaining  just  now;  he  says  he's  fed  up  with 
having  people  here. 

Peter. 
Take  him  out  with  you. 

Zoe. 
Then  we  quarrel  before  others.     That's  too   degrading. 
Oh,  it's  tiff,  tiff,  wrangle,  jangle,  outdoors  and  indoors  with 
us! 

Peter. 
You  say  things  to  Theo  when   you're  angry,  Zoe,  that 
wound  him  to  the  quick. 

Zoe. 

[Satirically.]      Really! 


act  i]  MID-CHANNEL  325 

Peter. 

Really.    You  mayn't  be  aware  of  it;  you  scratch  the  poor 
old  chap  till  he  bleeds. 

Zoe. 
Do  you  imagine  he  never  says  things  to  me  that  wound 
me  to  the  quick? 

Peter. 

He  doesn't  mean  half  of  'em. 

Zoe. 
Neither  do  I. 

Peter. 

[Rising  and  going   to   the  fire.]      No;   there's  the  crass 
foolishness  of  it  all.     [In  a  tone  of  expostulation.]     My  dear 

lady 

Zoe. 

[Suddenly  sitting  upright.]     We're  on  each  other's  nerves, 
Peter.    That's  the  plain  truth,  we're  on  each  other's  nerves. 

Peter. 
Worryin'  each  other. 

Zoe. 
Sick  to  death  of  each  other!    We  shall  have  been  married 
fourteen  years  on  the  thirtieth  of  next  June.     Isn't  it  ap- 
palling!    He's  getting  so  stodgy  and  pompous  and  flat-footed. 
He  drives  me  mad  with  his  elderly  ways. 

Peter. 

[Soothingly.]     Oh ! 

Zoe 
He's  sick  and  tired  of  me,  at  any  rate.  My  little  jokes 
and  pranks,  that  used  to  amuse  him  so — they  annoy  him  now, 
scandalize  him.  He's  continually  finding  fault  with  me — 
bullying  me.  That's  all  the  notice  he  takes  of  me.  As  for 
my  gowns  or  my  hats — anything  I  put  on — I  might  dress 


326  MID-CHANNEL  [act  i 

in  sackcloth;  he'd  never  observe  it.     [Tearfully.]     Ah ! 

[She  searches  for  her  handkerchief  and  fails  to  find  it.  Peter 
^.  produces  a  folded  handkerchief  from  his  breast-pocket,  shakes 
it  out,  and  gives  it  to  her.  She  wipes  her  eyes  as  she  pro- 
ceeds.] Sometimes,  I  own,  I'm  aggravating;  but  he  forgets 
how  useful  I  was  to  him  in  the  old  days,  when  we  were 
climbing.  Yes,  those  were  the  days — the  first  six  or  seven 
years  of  our  marriage,  when  we  were  up  north,  in  Fitzjohn's 
Avenue !  [  Tossing  Peter's  handkerchief  to  him  and  getting 
to  her  feet.]  Oh!  Oh,  we  were  happy  then,  Peter!  You 
didn't  know  us  then,  when  we  were  up  north! 

Peter. 

[Wagging  his  head.]     My  dear  lady,  we  were  all  happier 
when  we  were  up  north. 

Zoe. 

[Giving  him  a  look  of  surprise  as  she  paces  the  room  on 
the  left.]     You! 

Peter. 
I  mean,  in  a  previous  stage  of  our  careers. 

Zoe. 
Ah,  yes,  yes. 

Peter. 
That's  the  lesson  of  life,  Mrs.  Zoe.     We've  all  had  our 
Fitzjohn's  Avenue,  in  a  sense.     In  other  words,  we've  all 
been  young  and  keen  as  mustard;  with  everythin'  before  us, 
instead  of  havin'  most  things  behind  us. 

Zoe. 

[Leaning  on  the  back  of  the  chair  before  the  writing- 
table.]     Oh,  don't! 

Peter. 

[Thoughtfully.]  D'ye  know,  I  o*ten  wonder  whether 
there's  anythin'  more  depressin'  than  to  see  the  row  of 
trophies  standin'  on  the  sideboard  ? 


act  i]  MID-CHANNEL  327 

ZOE. 
[Sitting  at  the  writing-table  and  digging  her  fingers  into 
her  hair.]     Be  quiet,  Peter! 

Peter. 

That  silver-gilt  vase  there!  The  old  horse  that  gained 
it  for  you  is  lyin'  in  the  paddock  with  a  stone  a'top  of  him, 
and  you're  usin'  his  hoof  as  an  ink-pot.  Those  goblets  you 
won  on  the  river,  and  the  cup  you  helped  yourself  to  on  the 
links  at  Biarritz  or  St.  Moritz — there's  a  little  pile  of  ashes 
at  the  bottom  of  every  one  of  'em!  So  it  is  with  life  gen- 
erally. You  scoop  in  the  prizes — and  there  are  the  pots  on 
the  sideboard  to  remind  you  that  it  ain't  the  prizes  that 
count,  but  the  pushin'  and  the  strugglin'  and  the  cheerin'. 
Ah,  they  preach  to  us  on  Sundays  about  cherubim  and  sera- 
phim! It's  my  firm  hope  and  conviction  that  when  we  die 
and  go  to  Heaven  we  shall  all  find  ourselves  up  north  again 
— in  Fitzjohn's  Avenue!  {Coming  to  the  chair  in  the  middle 
of  the  room.]  Meanwhile,  it's  no  good  repinin'.  [Turning 
the  chair  towards  her  and  sitting.]  The  trophies  are  on  the 
sideboard,  dear  lady,  and  they've  got  to  be  kep'  clean  and 
shiny.  [Gravely.]  Now,  Zoe — [She  whimpers.]  Zoe, 
Zoe — [she  turns  to  him.]  Zoe,  one  ugly  word  passed  be- 
tween you  and  Theo  last  night 

Zoe. 

One ? 

Peter. 

One  ugly  word  that  must  never  be  repeated. 

Zoe 
What  word? 

[The  glazed  door  opens  and  Warren  appears  carrying 
a  teapot  on  a  tray.  He  comes  to  the  table  and  ex- 
changes the  teapot  he  is  carrying  for  the  one  that  is 
already  there. 


328  MID-CHANNEL  [act  i 

ZOE. 

[To  the  man.]  Mr.  Mottram  won't  have  any  tea, 
Warren. 

Warren. 

[Removing  the  cups  and  saucers  which  have  been  used  and 
putting  them  on  te  his  tray.]  No,  ma'am;  but  Mr.  Blun- 
dell's  just  come  in,  ma'am. 

[Warren  withdraws,  closing  the  door.  Zoe  rises 
stiffly,  and  gathers  up  her  hat,  coat,  and  gloves.  Then 
she  returns  to  Peter,  who  remains  seated. 

Zoe. 

What  word  was  it? 

Peter. 
Separation. 

[Theodore  Blundell,  a  big,  burly,  but  good-looking 
man,  enters  at  the  glazed  door.  He  halts  on  entering 
and  glances  furtively  at  Zoe,  as  if  expecting  her  to 
speak;  but,  without  meeting  his  eyes,  she  passes  him 
and  leaves  the  room. 

Theodore. 

[With  a  shrug.]  Ha!  [Peter,  looking  over  his  shoulder, 
sees  that  he  and  Theodore  are  alone.  Theodore  seats  him- 
self at  the  tea-table  and  pours  out  his  tea  grimly.]  Lots  o' 
good  you  seem  to  have  done,  Peter. 

Peter. 

Haven't  done  much,  I  admit.  Pity  you  came  home  quite 
so  soon. 

Theodore. 
You  left  the  office  at  half -past  two. 

Peter. 
She  wasn't  in  when  I  first  got  here. 


act  i]  MID-CHANNEL  329 

Theodore. 
[Taking  a  slice  of  bread-and-butter.]     Anyhow,  kind  of 
you  tO'offer  to  have  a  talk  to  her.     [Munching.]     Plenty  of 
abuse  of  me,  h'm? 

Peter. 

She  says  you're  on  each  other's  nerves,  Theo. 

Theodore. 
I'm  afraid  there's  something  in  that. 

Peter. 
And  that  you  are  growin'  a  bit  heavy  in  hand,  old  man. 

Theodore. 
[Drily.]     Exceedingly  sorry. 

Peter. 
[After  a  pause.]     Theo 

Theodore. 
Hallo? 

Peter. 

Shall  I  tell  you  what's  at  the  bottom  of  it  all? 

Theodore. 
Well? 

Peter. 
She's  got  a  feelin'  that  you're  tired  of  her. 

Theodore. 
[Gulping  his  tea.]     If  you  knew  how  constantly  I  have 
that  served  up  to  me ! 

Peter. 
Will  you  allow  me  to  speak  out? 

Theodore. 
Don't  be  so  polite. 


330  MID-CHANNEL  [act  i 

Peter. 
My  belief  is  that,  if  you  could  avoid  conveyin'  that  im- 
pression to  Zoe,  matters  would  improve  considerably  in  this 
establishment. 

Theodore. 
Oh? 

Peter. 

It's  as  easy  as  brushin'  your  hat.     A  little  pettin' — little 

sweetheartin' 

Theodore. 
Yes? 

Peter. 

[Discouraged.]      Well,    those    are    my    views,    for    what 
they're  worth. 

Theodore. 
[Pouring  out  another  cup  of  tea.]      My  dear  fellow,  if 
you'd  get   married,  and  have  thirteen  or  fourteen  years  of 
it,  as  I've  had,  your  views  would  be  worth  more  than  they 
are. 

Peter. 
Oh,  that  won't  wash.     [Rising.]     When  a  man's  sufferin' 
from  gout  in  the  toe,  he  doesn't  stipulate  that  his  M.D.  shall 
be  writhin'   from   the  same   ailment.     No,  very  frequently, 

the  outsider — 

Theodore. 

Good  gracious,  you're  not  going  to  remark  that  lookers-on 
see  most  of  the  game! 

Peter. 
Words  to  that  effect. 

Theodore. 
Ho!     Why  is  it  that,  the  moment  a  man's  matrimonial 
affairs   are   in  a  tangle,  every  platitude  in   the  language   is 
chewed-out  at  him?     [Leaning  his  head  on  his  hands.]      If 
you've  nothing  fresher  to  say  on  the  subject ! 


act  i]  MID-CHANNEL  331 

Peter. 
[Oracularly.]  My  dear  chap,  it's  tryin'  to  say  somethin' 
fresh  on  the  subject  of  marriage  that's  responsible  for  a  large 
share  of  the  domestic  unhappiness  and  discontent  existin' 
at  the  present  day.  There's  too  much  of  this  tryin'  to  say 
somethin'  fresh  on  every  subject,  in  my  opinion. 

Theodore. 
Nobody  can  accuse  you,  Peter 


Peter. 

You  take  it  from  me,  there  are  two  institootions  in  this 
world  that  are  never  goin'  to  alter — men  and  women  and 
the  shape  of  chickens'  eggs.  Chickens'  eggs  are  never  goin' 
to  be  laid  square ;  and  men  and  women  will  continue  to  be 
mere  men  and  women  till  the  last  contango.1  [Theodore 
finishes  his  tea,  rises,  and  comes  to  the  fire.]  I'm  referrin', 
of  course,  to  real  men  and  women.  I  don't  inclood  persons 
in  petticoats  with  flat  chests  and  no  hips;  nor  individuals 
wearin'  beards  and  trousers  who  dine  on  a  basin  of  farina- 
ceous food  and  a  drink  o'  water  out  o'  the  filter.  They  belong 
to  a  distinct  species.  No ;  I  mean  the  genuine  article,  like 
you  and  me  and  your  missus — men  and  women  with  blood 
in  their  veins,  and  one-and-a-half  per  cent,  of  good,  human- 
izin'  alcohol  in  that. 

Theodore. 
[Throwing  a  log  on  the  fire.]     What's  the  moral  of  your 
eloquent,  but  rather  vague,  discourse? 

Peter. 
[At  the  chair  in  the  middle  of  the  room.]      The  moral? 
Oh,  the  moral  is  that  men  and  women  of  the  ordinary,  retal- 
iation pattern  must  put  up  with  the  defects  of  each  other's 

1  "Contango-tidy1' — a  Stock  Exchange  expression:  the  day  on  -which 
a  buyer  or  seller  "carries  over"  to  the  next  settling-day. 


332  MID-CHANNEL  [act  i 

qualities.  [Turning  the  chair  so  that  it  faces  Theodore  and 
again  sitting  in  it.]  She  complains  that  you  don't  admire  her 
frocks  and  frills,  Theo. 

Theodore. 
[Groaning.]     Oh! 

Peter. 

Now,  come!  Where's  the  trouble?  There's  my  old 
mother — seventy-five  in  April!  Whenever  I'm  at  Stillwood, 
I  make  a  reg'lar  practice  of  complimentin'  her  on  her  rig-out. 
"By  Jove,  mater,"  I  say,  "you  are  a  buck  this  mornin'!"  Or 
evenin',  as  the  case  may  be.  I  couldn't  tell  you  what  she's 
wearin',  to  save  my  life;  but  there's  no  harm  done. 

Theodore. 
Yes,  you  do  it;  but  your  father  doesn't  do  it,  I'll  be  bound. 
[Peter  looks  glum  and  is  silent.]  It's  too  trivial!  [Pro- 
^  ducing  his  cigar  case.]  A  husband  can't  be  everlastingly 
praising  his  wife's  clothes.  [Offering  a  cigar  to  Peter  which 
he  declines.]  The  absence  of  comment  on  my  part  is  a  sign 
that  I'm  satisfied  with  Zoe's  appearance,  surely. 

Peter. 
She's  one  of  the  smartest  women  in  London. 


1 


Theodore. 
[Irritably.]     I  know  she  is.     I've  told  her  so  till  I'm  sick. 
[Cutting  and  lighting  a  cigar.]     I've  always  been  intensely 
proud  of  Zoe,  as  a  matter  of  fact — intensely  proud  of  her. 

Peter. 
No  more  than  her  due. 

Theodore. 
[With  increasing  indignation.]      Good   God,   how  often, 
at  a  dinner-party,  have  I  caught  myself  looking  along  the 
table  and  thinking  she's  the  handsomest  woman  in  the  room ! 
Tsch!     It's  a  ridiculous  thing  to  say 


act  i]  MID-CHANNEL  333 

Peter. 
What? 

Theodore. 

I  suppose  no  man  has  ever  been  "in  love"  with  his  wife 
for  longer  than  I've  been  with  mine. 

Peter. 

[Significantly.]     Been. 

Theodore. 
And  I  have  a  very  great  affection  for  her  still — or  should 
have,  if  her  behaviour  didn't  check  it. 

Peter. 

If  you  showed  your  affection  more  plainly,  wouldn't  that 
check  her  behaviour? 

Theodore. 
[Leaving  the  fireplace  and  moving  about  the  room.]  Oh, 
my  dear  fellow,  haven't  you  brains  enough  to  see!  We're 
middle-aged  people,  Zoe  and  I.  I  am  middle-aged,  and  she's 
not  far  off  it,  poor  girl.  There  must  come  a  time  on  a 
journey  when  your  pair  of  horses  stop  prancing  and  settle 
down  to  a  trot. 

Peter. 
How's  that  for  a  platitude! 

Theodore. 

I   thought  that  worm-eaten  illustration  might  appeal  to 
you. 

Peter. 

She  keeps  wonderfully  young,  Theo. 

Theodore. 
Isn't  that  a  little  to  my  credit?     But  Zoe's  within  three 
years  of  forty.     You  can't  put  the  clock  back. 


334  MID-CHANNEL  [act  i 

Peter. 
A  woman's  as  old  as  she  looks 


Theodore. 
And  a  man's  as  old  as  he  feels!    Another  ancient  wheeze! 

Peter. 
And  a  married  woman's  as  old  as  her  husband  makes  her 
feel. 

Theodore. 
My  dear  Peter,  I  don't  want  Zoe  to  feel  older  than  her 
years  by  a  single  hour.     But  I  confess  I  do  ask  her  occasion- 
ally  to   feel   as  old  as  her  years,   and  not  to  make  herself 
damnably  absurd. 

Peter. 
Absurd  ? 

Theodore. 
This  infernal  fooling  about  with  the  boys,  for  instance — 
the  cause  of  last  night's  flare-up — her  "tame  robins" — you're 

one !     [Peter  rises  hastily  and  goes  to  the  fire.]     Yes, 

you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  for  encouraging  her. 

Peter. 

Who's  in  fault?  Because  a  man's  wife  has  ceased  to  be 
attractive  to  him,  it  doesn't  follow  that  she  ain't  attractive 
to  others. 

Theodore. 

[Contetnptuously.]  Attractive?  The  vanity  of  "attract- 
ing" a  parcel  of  empty-headed  young  men !  You're  the 
patriarch  of  the  group !  [  Throwing  himself  into  the  chair 
just  vacated  by  Peter.]  The  whole  thing's  undignified — 
raffish. 

Peter. 

[Extending  a  forefinger.]  You  contrive  to  be  a  trifle 
more  sprightly  at  home,  Theo 


act  i]  MID-CHANNEL  335 

Theodore. 
[Moving    his    head   from    side    to    side.]      Oh,    you   will 
hammer  away  at  that!     I'm  forty-six.     My  sprightly  days 
are  over. 

Peter. 
[Emphatically.]      Humbug,  old  chap. 

Theodore. 
What's  humbug? 

Peter. 

Men  are  the  biggest  humbugs  goin' — especially  to  them- 
selves. And  a  man  of  your  age  or  mine — and  I'm  four 
years  your  senior — is  never  a  bigger  humbug  than  when  he's 
deloodin'  himself  with  the  notion  that  he's  scrap-iron. 

Theodore. 
You're  a  gay  old  spark 

Peter. 

No,  it's  when  the  sun's  working  round  to  the  west — it's 
when  men  are  where  we  are  now,,  that  they're  most  liable 
to  get  into  mischief. 

Theodore. 

Mischief?    What  are  you  driving  at? 

Peter. 
Nothin'.     I'm  simply  layin'  down  a  general  principle. 

Theodore. 
[Angrily.]     Confound  your  general  principles!     Don't  be 
an  ass. 

Peter. 
[Coming  to  Theodore.]      That  stoopid  nonsense  talked 
last    night — early    this    mornin' — about    livin'    apart — who 
started  it? 


336  MID-CHANNEL  [act  i 

Theodore. 
Zoe.     I  fancy  it  was  Zoe — last  night. 

Peter. 
Oh,  it  wasn't  the  first  time ? 

Theodore. 

[Smoking  with  fierce  puffs.}  We  had  an  awful  scene — ■ 
disgraceful.  I  felt  inclined  to  rush  out  of  the  house  then  and 
there. 

Peter. 

Why  didn't  you?  You  could  have  let  yourself  in  again 
when  she'd  gone  to  by-by. 

Theodore. 

[Sullenly.]  No,  that's  not  my  style.  If  ever  I  do  bang 
the  front-door,  it'll  be  once  and  for  all,  my  friend. 

Peter. 
[Shaking  him.}     Oh!    Oh! 

Theodore. 

She's  independent;  she  has  her  own  income — you  know — 
and  I've  told  her  I'd  supplement  it,  if  necessary.  I've  settled 
this  house  on  her  as  it  is;  she'd  be  welcome  to  it,  and  every 
stick  in  it,  worst  come  to  the  worst. 

Peter. 

Theo 

Theodore. 

And  I'd  go  and  live  in  a  garret,  in  peace. 

Peter. 
You're  not  considerin'  such  a  step  seriously? 


act  i]  MID-CHANNEL  337 

Theodore. 
{Turning  upon  him  roughly.]  No,  I'm  not — not  when 
I'm  sitting  here  chatting  quietly  with  you.  Nor  when  she's 
rational  and — and — and  amenable,  as  she  can  be  when  she 
chooses.  [Clenching  his  hands.]  But  when  she's  irritating 
me  till  I'm  half  beside  myself,  I — I 

Peter. 

You ? 

Theodore. 
[Looking  up  at  Peter.]     My  God,  Peter,  you're  a  wise 
man,  never  to  have  taken  it  on ! 

Peter. 
Marriage  ? 

Theodore. 

[Throwing  his  head  hack.]      Oh,  my  dear  fellow! 

[The  glazed  door  opens  and  Zoe  enters  meekly.     Her 
**         eyes  are  red,  and  a  handkerchief  is  crumpled  up  in 
her  hand.     She  glances  at  the  tea-table  and  comes  to 
~  Theodore.    Peter  retreats  to  the  fireplace. 

Zoe. 
[To  Theodore,  in  a  piteous  voice.]      Have  you — had 
your  tea? 

Theodore. 
[Frigidly.]     I  poured  it  out  myself. 

[After  a  moment's  hesitation,  she  bends  over  him  and 
gives  him  a  kiss.  Then  she  turns  away  and,  seating 
herself  at  the  writing-table,  proceeds  to  write  a  note. 
There  is  an  awkward  silence. 

Theodore. 
[Breaking  the  silence,  gruffly.]     Er — Zo 


338  MID-CHANNEL  [act  i 

ZOE. 
[JVith  a  sniff,  writing.]     Yes? 

Theodore. 
What  are  you  doing  to-night? 

Zoe. 

Jim  Mallandain  was  going  to  take  me  to  the  Palace.  I'm 
putting  him  off. 

Theodore. 
I'll  dine  you  out  and  take  you  somewhere. 

Zoe. 

No,  I'd  rather  have  a  quiet  evening  at  home,  Theo — just 
you  and  me.  [Blozving  her  nose.]  I've  ordered  Mrs.  Killick 
to  send  up  an  extra-nice  dinner. 

Theodore. 

Perhaps  Peter 

Zoe. 
[Stamping  her  foot.]     No,  I  won't  have  him. 

Peter. 
Besides,  I'm  booked. 

Zoe. 
[Petulantly.]      I  don't  care  whether  you  are  or  not.     I 
want  to  dine  alone  with  my  husband. 

[There  is  another  pause,  during  which  Zoe  scratches 
away  with  her  pen. 

Peter. 

[Clearing  his  throat.]  Well,  I'll  be  gettin'  along. 
[Theodore  rises.]     I  say 

Theodore. 
H'm? 


act  i]  MID-CHANNEL  339 

Peter. 

Why  don't  you  and  Zoe  have  a  week  or  a  fortnight  in 
Paris?"  It  'ud  do  you  both  a  heap  of  good. 

Theodore. 
Impossible.     How  can  I? 

Peter. 

Cert'nly  you  can.  If  anythin'  important  crops  up,  Tom 
Slade  or  I  will  run  over  to  you ;  or  you  could  come  back. 
{Again  there  is  a  pause.  Zoe  stops  writing.]  Do,  old  chap. 
[Another  pause.]     Won't  you? 

Theodore. 
[Without  enthusiasm.]     All  right. 

Peter. 
A  fortnight?    Nothin'll  happen. 

Theodore. 

[Nodding.]      A  fortnight. 

[Uttering  a  little  chirp  of  delight,  Zoe  resumes  writing. 
Peter  goes  to  her  as  Theodore  moves  away  to  the 
fireplace. 

Peter. 

[To  Zoe.]  Good-bye,  ma'am.  [She  gives  him  her  left 
hand  over  her  shoulder.  He  squeezes  it  and  makes  for  the 
glazed  door.      There   he  appears  to   be  struck   by   an   idea. 


340  MID-CHANNEL  [act  i 

After  a  silence  he  turns  slowly,  contemplates  the  pair  for  a 
moment  with  a  puckered  brow,  and  advances  a  step  or  two.] 
Theo 

Theodore. 

[IV ho  has  picked  up  one  of  the  illustrated  papers  and  has 
seated  himself  upon  the  settee  J]     H'm? 

Peter. 

[His  hands  in  his  pockets,  rattling  his  keys.]  About  half- 
way between  Dover  and  Calais — no,  it's  between  Folkestone 
and  Boulogne,  ain't  it? 

Theodore. 
[Examining  the  pictures.]     What? 

Peter. 

Of  course!  About  half-way  between  Folkestone  and 
Boulogne — mid-Channel — there's  a  shoal. 

Theodore. 
[Turning  a  page  of  his  paper.]     What  of  it? 

Peter. 

Le  Colbart,  the  French  sailor-men  call  it — Le  Colbart. 
We  call  it  the  Ridge.  [Coming  forward.]  If  you  go  by 
Folkestone  and  Boulogne,  you'll  pass  over  it. 

Theodore. 

[Glancing  at  him  suspiciously.]  Thanks  for  the  valuable 
information. 


act  i]  MID-CHANNEL  341 

Peter. 

D'ye  know,  I've  never  encountered  that  blessed  shoal  with- 
out experiencin'  a  most  unpleasant  time? 

Zoe. 
[Addressing  an  envelope.]     Oh,  my  dear  Peter! 

Peter. 

I've  crossed  on  some  of  the  finest  days  o'  the  year.  The 
sun's  been  shinin',  and  outside  the  harbour  the  water's  been 
as  smooth  as  it's  been  mside.  Everythin's  looked  as  enticin' 
as  could  be;  but  as  we've  neared  the  Ridge — mid-Channel — ■ 
I've  begun  to  feel  fidgety,  restless,  out  o'  sorts — hatin'  myself 
and  hatin'  the  man  who's  been  sharin'  my  cabin  with  me. 
But  the  sensation  hasn't  lasted  long. 

Zoe. 
[Sealing  her  letter.]     Glad  to  hear  it. 

Peter. 

No;  gradually  the  beastly  motion  has  died  down,  and  in 
a  quarter-of-an-hour  or  so  I've  found  myself  pacin'  the  deck 
again,  arm-in-arm  with  the  travellin'-companion  I've  been 
positively  loathin'  a  few  minutes  earlier. 

Theodore. 
[Gaping  demonstratively.]     Very  interesting. 

Peter. 

My  dear  pals,  I  remember  the  idea  once  occurrin'  to  me 
— I  mentioned  it  to  Charlie  Westbrook  at  the  time — there's 
a  resemblance  between  that  and  marriage. 


342  MID-CHANNEL  [act  i 

Theodore. 

[Shortly.]     Ha!    Thought  that  was  coming. 

[Zoe  turns  in  her  chair,  to  listen  to  Peter. 

Peter. 

Yes,  and  marriage,  mark  you,  at  its  best  and  brightest. 
The  happiest  and  luckiest  of  married  couples  have  got  to 
cross  that  wretched  Ridge.  However  successful  the  first 
half  of  their  journey  may  be,  there's  the  rough-and-tumble 
of  mid-Channel  to  negotiate.  Some  arrive  there  quicker  than 
others,  some  later;  it  depends  on  wind  and  tide.  But  they 
get  there;  and  a  bad  time  it  is,  and  must  be — a  time  when 
travellin'-companions  see  nothin'  but  the  spots  on  each  others' 
yellow  faces,  and  when  innoomerable  kind  words  and  in- 
noomerable  kind  acts  are  clean  forgotten.  [Zoe,  her  letter 
in  her  hand,  rises  impulsively  and  comes  to  Peter.]  But, 
as  I  tell  you,  it's  soon  over — well  over,  if  only  Mr.  Jack  and 
Mrs.  Jill  will  understand  the  situation;  if  only  they'll  say 
to  themselves,  "We're  on  the  Ridge ;  we're  in  mid-Channel ; 
in  another  quarter-of-an-hour  the  boat'll  be  steady  again — 
as  steady  as  when  we  stepped  on  to  the  gangway."  [To 
Theodore.]    Not  offended,  old  man? 

Theodore. 
[Uncomfortably.]      Ha,  ha,  ha! 

Zoe. 

[Gently,  giving  her  letter  to  Peter.]     Tell  Warren  to 

give  that  to  a  messenger-boy.     |  To  Theodore.]     Theo ! 

[She  puts  her  hands  upon  Peter's  shoulders  and  kisses 
him. 


act  i]  MID-CHANNEL  343 

'  Peter. 

[Chuckling.]  Ha,  ha!  [To  Theodore.]  Division  of 
profits.*    [At  the  glazed  door.]     When '11  you  be  off  ? 

Theodore. 
Oh — one  day  next  week. 

Peter. 

[Nodding.]      To-morrow  mornin',  then. 

[He  goes  out,  closing  the  door. 

Zoe. 
Dear  old  Peter ! 

Theodore. 

[Deep  in  his  paper.]  Peter's  gettin'  a  bit  of  a  bore, 
though. 

Zoe. 

[Mimicking  Peter,  as  she  wipes  her  eyes.]  He's  amusin'. 
[Going  to  THEODORE  and  seating  herself  beside  him.] 
Theo 

Theodore. 
H'm? 

ZOE. 

[Edging  up  to  him.]  Let's  go  by  Folkestone  and  Boulogne 
— shall  we? 

Theodore. 
/  don't  mind. 


344  MID-CHANNEL  [act  i 

ZOE. 

[Wistfully.]  Let's  go  by  Folkestone  and  Boulogne — and 
have  done  with  it.  [Slipping  her  arm  through  his.]  Theo 
— last  night — sorry.  [He  nods  and  looks  at  another  picture.] 
I  take  it  all  back — the  things  I  said.     I  didn't  mean  them. 

Theodore. 
That's  all  right. 

ZOE. 

And  you  didn't  mean ? 

Theodore. 
[Impatiently.]     Of  course  I  didn't. 

Zoe. 

[Giving  herself  a  shake.]  Ah!  [After  a  brief  pause.] 
Theo 

Theodore. 
H'm? 

Zoe. 

[Taking  the  paper  from  him  playfully.]  Don't  look  at 
those  improper  young  ladies.  [Coaxingly.]  Couldn't  you 
manage  to  get  away  on  Sunday? 

Theodore. 
Oh— I  might. 

Zoe. 

It's  your  treat  to  me,  isn't  it — and  the  beginning  of  better 
times?    The  sooner  we  begin 


act  i]  MID-CHANNEL  345 

Theodore. 

[Nodding.]     You  shall  have  it  all  your  own  way. 

« 

ZOE. 

[  Gleefully.  ]     Sunday ! 

Theodore. 
H'm. 

ZOE. 

I'm  dreadfully  shabby.  I've  no  new  clothes.  You  don't 
object? 

Theodore. 

[Distinctly.]  Now,  my  dear  Zo — my  darling — under- 
stand this  from  me  clearly.  You  are  never  shabby;  you 
couldn't  be  shabby.  As  far  as  I  am  a  judge,  you  are  always 
dressed  beautifully  and — and — and  in  perfect  taste. 

ZOE. 

Beautifully ! 

Theodore. 

If  you  were  not  well-dressed,  I  should  venture  to  call  your 
attention  to  it. 

Zoe. 
Silence  is  approval? 

Theodore. 

Absolutely.  So  don't  expect  me — a  busy  man — to  be 
eternally  praising  your  gowns  and  what  not;  because  I  can- 
not and  will  not  do  it. 


346  MID-CHANNEL  [act  i 

ZOE. 

I  won't — I  won't.  I  know  I'm  inconsiderate — [stamping 
her  foot]  beastly  inconsiderate.  [Excitedly.]  Write  out  a 
telegram  now 

Theodore. 
Telegram  ? 

Zoe. 
To  the  hotel. 

Theodore. 

Yes,  that  'd  be  wise.  [He  rises  and  goes  over  to  the 
writing-table  where,  taking  a  sheet  of  note-paper,  he  sits  and 
writes.]     We  couldn't  get  an  answer  to  a  letter. 


Zoe. 

[Jumping    up   and    walking    about.]      Jolly   nice    rooms, 
Theo! 

Theodore. 

[Assentingly.]     H'm,  h'm. 

Zoe. 
[Humming.]     Tra,  la!  ra,  la!  la,  ra,  la ! 

Theodore. 
[In  the  throes  of  composition.]     Sssh,  sssh! 

Zoe. 
[Opening  the  illustrated  paper.]     Beg  pardon. 


act  i]  MID-CHANNEL  347 

Theodore. 

[Writing.]       " deux    bonnes    chambres    a    coucher — 

salle  de  bain — et  salon " 


ZOE. 

There's  Lena.    Don't  forget  the  maid. 

Theodore. 
Oh,  they  shove  her  anywhere. 

Zoe. 

[Imperatively.]      No,  no;  I  must  have  her  handy.      [He 
writes.]     What  hotel  are  we  going  to,  Theo? 

Theodore. 

[Writing.]      " aussi    chambre    pour    servante    meme 

etage " 

Zoe. 
The  Ritz? 

Theodore. 
Oh,  blow  the  Ritz! 

Zoe. 
We've  always  been  comfortable  at  the  Ritz. 

Theodore. 

[Putting  the  finishing  touches  to  his  telegram.]     Twenty 
francs  a  minute. 


348  MID-CHANNEL  [act  i 

Zoe. 

[Disappointed.]     Where  then?    The  Elysee  Palace  is  too 
far  out  this  weather.     The  Regina? 


Theodore. 

{Reading.]  "Pouvez-vous  reserver  pour  Monsieur  et 
Madame  Blundell  pour  dimanche  et  nuits  suivantes  aparte- 
ment  compose  deux  bonnes  chambres  a  coucher,  salle  de  bain, 
et  salon,  aussi  chambre  pour  servante  meme  etage?  Reponse 
telegraphique.     Theodorus,  London." 


Zoe. 

[Advancing.]  Oh,  Theo!  Shall  we  try  the  new  Meu- 
rice?  The  Langdales  had  a  suite  there  that  made  them  feel 
like  Royalties. 

Theodore. 

[Half-turning  to  her.]  Gerald  Duckfleld  was  telling  me 
of  a  capital  little  hotel  where  he  and  Bessie  stayed — the 
Vendome 

Zoe. 
Where's  that? 

Theodore. 
In  the  Place  Vendome. 


Zoe. 

The  Ritz — the  Bristol — the  Rhin — they're  the  only  hotels 
in  the  Place. 


act  i]  MID-CHANNEL  349 

Theodore. 

Oh,  but  this  is  in  the  part  of  the  Place  that  runs  down  to 
the  top 'of  the  Rue  Castiglione. 


Zoe. 
The  narrow  part? 

Theodore. 
Well,  it  isn't  the  broad  part,  certainly. 

Zoe. 

The  traffic  of  the  Rue  St.  Honore  to  help  to  send  you  to 
sleep ! 

Theodore. 

No,  no;  there  are  double  windows,  Gerald  says,  to  the 
best  bedrooms.  [Turning  to  the  writing-table.']  It  'ud  be  an 
experiment. 

Zoe. 

[Sitting  in  the  chair  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  with  her 
back  to  him.]     Yes,  it  would  be  an  experiment. 

Theodore. 
Shall  we  risk  it? 

Zoe. 
[Coldly.]     By  all  means. 

Theodore. 
[Writing.]    "Directeur — Hotel  Vendome " 


350  MID-CHANNEL  [act  i 

ZOE. 

[Tapping  her  feet  upon  the  floor.]     Ha! 

Theodore. 
H'm?    " Place  Vendome " 


ZOE. 

[Holding  up  the  illustrated  paper  so  that  he  may  see,  over 
her  head,  a  risque  picture.]  If  you  were  taking  this  sort 
of  woman  with  you,  nothing  'ud  be  good  enough  for  her. 

Theodore. 

[Glancing  at  the  picture,  angrily.]  Oh,  don't  be  so  coarse! 
f  There  is  a  pause.  He  leans  back  in  his  chair,  biting  his  pen. 
Suddenly  she  flings  the  illustrated  paper  away  from  her  into 
the  air.  Throwing  down  his  pen,  he  rises  and  paces  the 
room.]  This  promises  well  for  an  enjoyable  fortnight  in 
Paris! 

ZOE. 

[Rising  and  moving  to  the  left.]  Look  here,  old  man! 
This  trip  was  going  to  be  your  treat.  Very  well,  that's  off! 
I'll  take  you  to  Paris;  I'll  pay  the  expenses;  and  I  won't  stuff 
you  up  in  a  frowsy  rabbit-hutch. 

Theodore. 
[Coming  fonuard  on  the  right.]     Don't  insult  me! 

Zoe. 

[Facing  him.]  Anyway,  your  treat  or  mine,  I  stay  at  no 
hotel  in  Paris  that  isn't  top-hole. 


act  i]  MID-CHANNEL  35 1 

Theodore. 

[Furjously.]  Oh,  stop  your  damned  slang,  for  God's 
sake! 

ZOE. 

[Her  eyes  blazing.]     What! 

Theodore. 

[Sitting  on  the  fauteuil-stool  and  rocking  himself  to  and 
fro.]     Oh!     Oh! 

Zoe. 

Stop  my  damned  slang! 

Theodore. 
[His  head  in  his  hands.]     Hold  your  tongue! 

Zoe. 

[Coming  to  him.]  And  how  did  I  learn  my  damned 
slang,  pray?  [He  waves  her  from  him.]  I  learnt  it  from 
the  crew  you  surrounded  me  with  when  I  condescended  to 
marry  you  and  went  out  of  my  world  into  yours. 


Theodore. 


[Starting  up.]     Oh- 


[He  goes  to  the  bell  and  rings  it  continuously. 

Zoe. 

[Following  him.]  Yes,  you  were  hugely  tickled  by  it 
then !  And  so  were  they — the  men  you  thought  might  be 
serviceable  to  you;  and  who  were  serviceable  to  you,  often 
through  me\ 


352  MID-CHANNEL  [act  i 

Theodore. 
Oh! 

ZOE. 

Ha!  And  now  that  my  tongue's  furred  with  it,  and  ft 
isn't  necessary  to  attract  the  vulgar  brutes  any  more,  you 
round  on  me  and  rag  me!  [Pacing  the  room  on  the  left.] 
Oh!  Oh!  If  only  my  dear  old  dad  were  alive!  He'd  fuss 
over  me  and  protect  me.  My  father  was  a  gentleman.  He 
warned  me  I  was  chucking  myself  away! 

Theodore. 
Oh! 

ZOE. 
[Wildly.]     Why  do  you  keep  on  ringing  that  bell? 

Theodore. 
[In  a  loud  vice.]     I  suppose  I  can  ring  the  bell  if  I  like! 

Zoe. 

You — you  can  go  to  the  devil  if  you  like ! 

[She  goes  out  at  the  glazed  door.     As  she  disappears, 
Warren  passes  her  and  enters. 

Theodore. 
[Crossing  to  the  writing-table.]     Warren 

Warren. 
Yessir? 

Theodore. 

[Picking  up  the  sheet  of  paper  on  which  he  has  written  the 
message  to  the  hotel.]     Pack  me  a  bag. 


ACT  i] 

MID-CHANNEL 

Warren. 

Bag,  sir? 

353 


Theodore. 

\T earing  the  paper  into  small  pieces.}     Yes;  I'm  not  sleep- 
ing at  home  to-night. 

Warren. 

[Coming  to   the  table  and  preparing  to  remove  the  tea- 
things.]     Very  good,  sir. 


END  OF  THE  FIRST  ACT 


THE  SECOND  ACT 

The  scene  is  the  same,  but  the  disposition  of  some  of  the 
furniture  is  changed.  The  settee  on  the  right  is  now 
placed  with  its  bach  to  the  fireplace.  At  the  further  end 
of  the  settee  are  the  oblong  table  and  chair,  and  on  the 
left  of  the  table,  facing  the  settee,  is  the  chair  which  in 
the  preceding  act  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  An 
arm-chair  is  at  the  nearer  end  of  the  settee,  and  another 
arm-chair  and  the  fauteuil-stool  stand  together  not  far 
from  the  glazed  door. 

On  the  oblong  table  are  a  box  of  cigarettes,  matches, 
and  an  ash-tray. 

The  fireplace  is  banked  with  flowers,  there  are  flowers 
in  vases  upon  the  tables,  and  the  room  is  full  of  sunlight. 
[Two  men — an  upholsterer  and  his  assistant — are  en- 
gaged in  putting  covers  of  gay  chintz  upon  the  chairs 
and  settees.  The  upholsterer  is  on  his  knees  at  the 
settee  on  the  right,  the  assistant  is  at  the  chair  by  the 
writing-table.  Lena,  Zoe's  maid — a  bright,  buxom 
woman — is  arranging  the  furniture  in  the  middle  of 
the  room.  Presently  the  assistant  proceeds  to  collect 
the  brown  paper  and  cord  which  litter  the  floor. 

Upholsterer. 
[Rising  from  his  knees — to  Lena.]     That's  all  right. 

Lena. 

[Coming  to  him.]     And  when  are  we  to  have  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  you  again? 

355 


356  MID-CHANNEL  [act  ii 

Upholsterer. 
Tomorrow. 

Lena. 

What  about  next  year,  or  the  year  after!     [Producing  her 
purse  and  giving  him  a  tip.]     In  case  I  shouldn't  live  so  long. 

Upholsterer. 
Thank    you    very    much.       [Moving    away  —  quietly.] 

William 

[The  assistant,  laden  with  brown  paper,  advances,  and 
Lena  tips  him. 

Assistant. 
Thank  you,  miss.    Good  morning,  miss. 

Lena. 

Good  morning. 

Upholsterer. 

[At  the  glazed  door.]     Good  morning. 

Lena. 

[Tidying  the  furniture  on  the  right.]  Good  morning. 
[The  men  depart.  Almost  immediately,  the  glazed  door 
is  reopened  and  Warren  appears,  showing  in 
Leonard.  Leonard  is  gloved  and  is  carrying  a  straw 
hat  and  a  walking-cane.  He  has  lost  his  fresh,  boyish 
appearance  and  is  sallow  and  lined. 

Leonard. 
[To  Lena.]     Good  morning. 

Lena. 

[Familiarly.]  Oh,  good  morning.  [To  Warren.]  I'll 
let  Mrs.  Blundell  know.  [To  Leonard,  as  Warren  with- 
draws.]    She'll  be  down  soon.    Will  you  have  a  paper? 


act  ii]  MID-CHANNEL  357 

Leonard. 
Thanks;  seen  'em.     How  is  she,  Lena? 

Lena. 

Middling.  She's  a  little  feverish,  the  doctor  says.  She 
must  have  caught  a  chill  coming  over.  [Leonard  nods.] 
She  would  sit  on  deck,  talking  to  Mr.  Mallandain.  We  met 
him  by  accident  on  the  platform  as  we  were  leaving  Paris. 

Leonard. 
[Nodding  again.]     She's  told  me. 

Lena./ 
She's   to    remain    indoors    again    today    and    keep    out   of 
draughts.     [Looking  at  a  watch  which  she  wears  on  her  wrist 
and  at  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece.]     What  do  you  say  the 
right  time  is? 

Leonard. 
[Looking  at  his  watch.]  Quarter  to  twelve. 

Lena. 

[Going  to  the  mantelpiece.]  I'm  to  give  her  her  med'cine 
an  hour  before  meals.  [Moving  the  hands  of  the  clock.] 
Ha!  They've  all  been  playing  tricks  here  while  we've  been 
away,  clock-winder  included. 

Leonard. 
[Absently.]     Indeed? 

Lena. 

Servants,  tradespeople,  everybody!  [Unbuckling  her 
bracelet.]  Because  Mrs.  Blundell  is  now  on  her  own,  I 
s'pose  they  fancy  they  can  take  advantage  of  her.  [Return- 
ing to  Leonard.]  I'll  teach  'em!  ["Timing"  her  watch.] 
Think  we're  getting  fairly  straight? 


358  MID-CHANNEL  [act  ii 

Leonard. 
[Glancing  idly  at  the  room  as  he  sits  in  the  arm-chair  near 
the  glazed  door.]     Wonderfully. 

Lena. 

Not  bad,  is  it,  considering  we've  been  home  only  two 
days? 

Leonard. 

[Placing  his  hat  and  cane  upon  the  fauteuil-stool.] 
Capital. 

Lena. 

[Refastening  her  bracelet.]  Ouf!  The  relief,  after  some 
of  those  foreign  hotels! 

Leonard. 

[Drawing  off  his  gloves.]     Tired  of  travelling,  eh? 

Lena. 

Don't  ask  me!  I  was  saying  to  Mrs.  Killick  at  breakfast 
— I've  had  enough  of  Italy  to  last  me  my  life.  Over  four 
months  of  it,  and  without  a  courier!  [Going  towards  the 
glazed  door.]     That's  a  bit  too  stiff. 

Leonard. 
It  is  rather. 

Lena. 

[Halting  by  him  and  dropping  her  voice  slightly.]  Not 
that  we  wanted  a  courier  when  you  came  out  to  us.  A  splen- 
did courier  you  were ;  I  couldn't  wish  for  a  better. 

Leonard. 
[Uncomfortably.]      Ha,  ha! 

Lena. 

[Lavihing.]  Do  you  remember  our  losing  her  hat-box  at 
that  v.rexhed  old  Siena? 


act  n]  MID-CHANNEL  359 

Leonard. 
Yes — yes. 

Lena. 

You  woke  'm  up  there  in  grand  style.  Ha,  ha!  Your 
friend,  the  Italian  policeman — the  image  in  the  feathers ! 

Leonard. 
Ha,  ha! 

Lena. 

You  did  give  him  a  dressing!  {Sobering  herself.]  Yes, 
those  three  or  four  weeks  you  were  with  us  were  the  pleas- 
antest  o'  the  lot,  to  my  idea.  [Going.]  Well,  good-day. 
[Stopping  again.]  Oh,  but  I  must  show  you  this.  [Taking 
a  ring  from  her  finger.]  A  present  from  her — last  Saturday 
— one  of  the  best  shops  in  the  Roo  Royarl.  [Handing  it  to 
him.]     She  went  out  and  bought  it  herself. 


Turquoise- 


Leonard. 

Lena. 

And  diamonds. 

Leonard. 
[Returning  the  ring.]     Beautiful. 

Lena. 

Wasn't  it  kind  of  her!  I'm  as  vain  as  a  peacock.  [Re- 
placing the  ring  on  her  finger.]  But  there,  you've  both  been 
extremely  good  to  me. 

Leonard. 
Not  at  all. 

Lena. 

You  have;  you've  spoilt  me  completely.  [At  the  door, 
speaking  louder.]     Treacherous  weather  for  June,  isn't  it? 


36o  MID-CHANNEL  [act  h 

Leonard. 
Very. 

Lena. 

[In  the  corridor.]     Oh,  here  you  are!    Her&'s  Mr.  Ferris 

i — I  was  just  coming  up  to  tell  you 

[Leonard  rises  as  Zoe  appears  in  the  corridor.  She 
is  dressed  in  an  elegant  robe  of  rich,  soft  material  and 
carries  a  little  bag  in  which  are  a  few  opened  letters, 
her  handkerchief,  etc.  She  also  is  changed.  Her  face 
is  wan  and  there  are  dark  circles  round  her  eyes. 

Zoe. 

Ah?     [To  Leonard,  formally,  as  she  enters  the  room.] 
Good  morning. 

Leonard. 
Good  morning. 

Zoe. 
Lena,  how  charming  the  old  chintz  looks! 

Lena. 

[Who  is  lingering.]     It's  English! 

Zoe. 

[Laying  her  bag  upon  the  oblong  table.]     If  we  could  all 
be  freshened  up  by  the  same  process! 

Lena. 

[Her  hand  on  the  door-handle.]     Don't  forget  you're  to 
take  your  med'eine  in  three-quarters-of-an-hour. 

Zoe. 
Oh,  bring  me  the  filthy  stuff  when  you  like. 


act  n]  MID-CHANNEL  361 

Lena. 

[In    the    corridor,    closing    the    door.]      Now,    don't    be 
naughty. 

[As  the  woman  disappears,  Leonard  walks  over  to  Zoe. 
She  puts  out  her  hand  to  check  him,  and  they  stand 
for  a  moment  or  two  watching  the  door  and  listening. 
Then  she  drops  her  hand  and  turns  her  face  to  him 
perfunctorily,  and  he  kisses  her  as  a  matter  of  course. 

Zoe. 
Your  motor  isn't  outside? 

Leonard. 
No;  I  walked  across  the  Park. 

Zoe. 

That  yellow  car  of  yours  is  so  conspicuous.      [Arranging 
a  pillow  on  the  settee.]     Sorry  I  wasn't  visible  yesterday. 

Leonard. 
You're  better  ? 

Zoe. 
[Evasively.]    Oh,  more  or  less  decrepit.    [Sitting.]    What 
have  you  been  doing  with  yourself  ? 

Leonard. 

Nothing  much.     [Sitting  in  the  arm-chair  opposite  to  her.] 

Except 

Zoe. 

[Taking  her  bag  from  the  table.]     By-the-bye,  I've  had  a 
note  this  morning  from  an  old  friend  of  yours. 

Leonard. 
Who? 


362  MID-CHANNEL  [act  ii 

ZOE. 
[Producing  a  letter  from  the  bag.]     Ethel  Pierpoint. 

Leonard. 
[Inexpressively.]     Oh?     [She  extracts  the  letter  from  its 
envelope  and  tosses  it  across  to  him.    He  reads  it  silently,  with 
a  frown.     She  takes  a  cigarette  from  the  box  on  the  table.] 
I  thought  you'd  dropped  her. 

ZoE. 
I  did,  in  a  fashion.     I  stopped  her  letters  by  ceasing  to 
answer  them.      [Striking  a  match.]      I  hated  calling  myself 
hers  affectionately,  knowing  I'd  been  the  cause  of  your  slack- 
ing away  from  her. 

Leonard. 

[Under  his  breath.]     Pish! 

Zoe. 
[Lighting  her  cigarette.]     What  does  she  say? 

Leonard. 
[Reading  aloud.~\  "Dearest  Zoe.  Quite  by  chance  I  hear 
you  are  back  at  Lancaster  Gate.  Why  do  you  still  make  no 
sign?  I  never  wanted  your  friendship  more  than  now — or 
the  friendship  of  somebody  who  will  give  me  good  advice,  or 
a  sound  shaking  for  being  a  fool.  Please  take  pity  on  your 
troubled  but  ever  devoted,  Ethel  Drayson  Pierpoint."  [To 
Zoe.]  What  does  she  mean  by  never  wanting  your  friend- 
ship more  than  now?  [Zoe  shakes  her  head.  He  continues 
to  ponder»over  the  letter.]  " — or  the  friendship  of  somebody 
who  will  give  me  good  advice,  or  a  sound  shaking  for  being 
a  fool." 

Zoe. 

[Smoking,  thoughtfully.]     When  did  you  see  the  Pier- 
points  last? 


act  n]  MID-CHANNEL  363 

Leonard. 
About  a  month  after  you  left  London — just  before  I  fol- 
lowed you.     {Returning  the  letter  to  her.]     I  cooled  off  them 
gradually. 

Zoe. 
[After  a  pause.]     She's  a  nice  girl — Ethel. 

Leonard. 

Ye — es,  she  was  nice  enough. 

[There  is  a  further  pause.  Then  Zoe  jumps  up,  as  if 
to  dismiss  disagreeable  reflections,  and  crosses  to  the 
writing-table.  There  she  empties  her  bag  of  the  let- 
ters it.  contains. 

Leonard. 
[Gloomily.]     Am  I  in  the  way? 

Zoe. 

[Fretfully.]  Of  course  not.  [She  sits  at  the  zvriting- 
table  and  busies  herself  with  re-reading  her  letters  and  de- 
stroying some  of  them.  Leonard  rises  and  takes  a  cigarette 
from  the  box.]     Poor  Robby  Relf  has  got  neuritis. 

Leonard. 
[Lighting  his  cigarette.]     Zo 


Zoe. 
Eh? 

Leonard. 

I  was  going  to  tell  you — I  dined  at  the  Carlton  last  night. 

Zoe. 
[Indifferently.]     Oh? 


364  MID-CHANNEL  [act  ii 

Leonard. 
With  Cossy  Rawlings.    Guess  who  was  there. 

Zoe. 

[Becoming  attentive.']     Dun'no. 

Leonard. 
He  didn't  see  me — he  was  at  a  table  the  other  side  of  the 

room 

Zoe. 
[Holding  her  breath.]     Theodore? 

Leonard. 
Yes. 

[She  throws  the  pieces  of  a  letter  into  the  waste-paper 
basket  and  leans  back  in  her  chair. 

Zoe. 
How — how  did  he  look? 

Leonard. 
[Curling  his  lip.]     I  didn't  study  his  appearance. 

Zoe. 
He — he  wasn't — by  himself? 

Leonard. 
Hardly! 

Zoe. 
That — that  woman? 

Leonard. 
[Nodding.]     Same  lady. 


act  n]  MID-CHANNEL  365 

Zob. 
Simply  the  two? 

Leonard. 

[Sitting  upon  the  settee  on  the  right.]     The  two  turtle 
doves. 

[After  a  brief  silence,  she  pushes  her  letters  from  her, 
rises,  and  moves  about  the  room  quietly  but  agitatedly. 

Zoe. 
Who  is  this  creature? 

Leonard. 
[Impatiently.]     I've  told  you — and  Jim  told  you  on  Sun- 
day. 

Zoe. 
Hatherly — Annerly ? 

Leonard. 

Her  husband  was  a  Major  Annerly — Frank  Annerly.    He 
divorced  her  over  a  man  of  the  name  of  Bettison. 

Zoe. 
Where's  he? 

Leonard. 

He's  dead.     She's  been  through  a  good  many  hands  since. 

Zoe. 
Ho! 

Leonard. 

Fred  Wishart  was  one — and  Tod  Arnold 


Zoe. 
She's  quite  young,  isn't  she? 

Leonard. 
Looks  a  baby. 


366  MID-CHANNEL  [act  11 

ZOE. 

Ha! 

Leonard. 

I  should  put  her  at  thirty. 

Zoe. 
Pretty?    They  all  are! 

Leonard. 
Passable. 

Zoe. 

[Behind  the  chair  on  the  left  of  the  oblong  table.]      Do 
you  think  she's — with  him? 

Leonard. 
Not  regularly.     She's  still  living  in  Egerton  Crescent,  ac- 
cording to  Cossy. 

Zoe. 

[Gripping  the  back  of  the  chair.]     She'll  ruin  him;  she'll 
ruin  him,  Len. 

Leonard. 

Oh,  I  dare  say  there'll  be  a  bit  left,  when  she's  done  with 
him. 

Zoe. 

There  are  other  ways  of  dragging  a  man  down  besides 
through  his  pocket.     Jim  Mallandain  says  she's  a  vampire. 

Leonard. 
Why  should  you  worry  yourself ? 

Zoe. 
I  don't  want  him  to  come  to  grief.    Why  should  I  ? 

Leonard. 
If  he  does,  you've  nothing  to  reproach  yourself  with. 


act  n]  MID-CHANNEL  367 

ZOE. 
[Giving  him  a  swift  look!}     What! 

Leonard. 
[Sullenly.]      Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean — nothing  that 
occurred  before  he  took  himself  off. 

Zoe. 
[Moving  to   the  oblong   table,  with  a  long-drawn  sigh.] 
Ah-h-h!      [Sitting,  her  elbows  on  the* table,  leaning  her  head 
on  her  hand.]      It  will  always  be  on  my  conscience  that  I 
drove  him  away. 

Leonard. 

You  didn't  drive  him  away. 

Zoe. 
I  did. 

Leonard. 

You  were  quite  justified  in  doing  it,  anyhow.     He  made 
your  life  a  burden  to  you. 

Zoe. 
I  might  have  been  more  patient  with  him;  I  might  have 
waited. 

Leonard. 
Waited  ? 

Zoe. 

Waited   till  we'd  got  through  the  middle  period  of  our 
lives.      [Raising  her  head.]      Peter  warned  us,  the  very  day 

we  parted 

Leonard. 

[Sneeringly.]     Peter! 

Zoe. 
Mid-Channel!     We  should  soon  have  reached  the  other 
side. 


368  MID-CHANNEL  [act  ii 

Leonard. 
There's  a  limit  to  human  endurance ;  you'd  passed  it. 

Zoe. 

{Staring  before  her.]  It  seems  to  me  now,  there  wasn't 
so  very  much  for  me  to  put  up  with — not  so  very  much. 
[Rising  and  walking  to  the  back  of  the  settee  on  which 
Leonard  is  sitting.]  There  was  a  lot  of  good  in  him,  really. 
After  all,  he  only  needed  managing,  humouring 

Leonard. 
[Starting  up  and  turning  to  her.]      Upon  my  soul,  Zoe! 
Ha!    You're  discovering  no  end  of  fine  qualities  in  him  sud- 
denly ! 

Zoe. 
[Bitterly.]     Am  I! 

Leonard. 

You  hadn't  a  decent  word  for  him  when  we  were  in  Italy ! 
Now  he's  perfect! 

Zoe. 

[Facing  him.]     No,  he's  not. 

Leonard. 
[Satirically.]     Sounds  like  it. 

Zoe. 
[Flaring  up.]     Neither  he  nor  you!    You  can  be  just  as 
unkind  to  me  as  he  ever  was. 

Leonard. 
[Angrily.]     I! 

Zoe. 
Yes!    And,  with  all  his  faults,  he  did  try  to  take  care  of 
me — to  keep  me  from  harm !     [Her  eyes  ablaze.]     My  God, 
what  have  you  done! 


act  ii]  MID-CHANNEL  369 

{They  remain  confronting  one  another  for  a  moment 
without  speaking.  Then  he  turns  away  abruptly  and 
picks  up  his  hat  and  cane.  She  runs  after  him  and 
clings  to  him. 

Zoe. 

No,  no;  don't  be  hasty.    I  didn't  mean  it — I  didn't  mean 

it 

Leonard. 


[Endeavouring  to  free  himself.]     Let  me  go 

Zoe. 
Ah,  no!     I'm  not  well  to-day 

Leonard. 
I'll  come  back  when  you're  better  tempered. 

Zoe. 

I  am  better  tempered.  Look!  it's  all  over.  [Coaxing  him 
to  give  up  his  hat  and  cane.]  Lenny — Lenny  dear — Lenny 
—  [Placing  the  hat  and  cane  upon  the  writing-table,  she  takes 
her  handkerchief  from  her  bag  and  dries  her  eyes.  He  sits  in 
the  arm-chair  near  the  glazed  door  sulkily.]  Ha,  ha!  Now 
you're  beginning  to  see  what  sort  of  a  time  poor  Theo  had 
with  me. 

Leonard. 

Oh,  can't  you  leave  off  talking  about  him  for  a  single 
second ! 

.  Zoe. 

[Coming  to  him  meekly.]     I  beg  your  pardon,  dear. 

Leonard. 
You've  got  that  fellow  on  the  brain. 

Zoe. 
[Standing  behind  him.]     You  started  it,  by  telling  me  of 
last  night. 


370  MID-CHANNEL  [act  ii 

Leonard. 

Why  the  deuce  shouldn't  I  tell  you  of  last  night!  Do 
sit  down.  [She  sits  near  him,  upon  the  fauteuil-stool.]  I 
can't  make  you  out,  Zo.  This  woman's  only  what  we've  been 
waiting  for.  I've  said  all  along  he'd  soon  give  you  an  oppor- 
tunity of  divorcing  him.    She  completes  your  case  for  you. 

Zoe. 
[Dully.]     Yes. 

Leonard. 

[Grumbling.]  You  ought  to  be  tremendously  obliged  to 
Jim  for  being  the  first  to  open  your  eyes — my  eyes  too — to 
what's  going  on.  Instead  of  which,  you're  upset  by  it.  And 
now,  because  I've  seen  Blundell  and  the  lady  together,  I'm 
favoured  by  hearing  Mr.  B.  described  as  a  model  hus- 
band  

Zoe. 

[To  silence  him.]     Ah — ! 

Leonard. 
[Changing    his    tone.]      When    do    you    interview    your 
lawyers? 

Zoe. 

I — I  haven't  written  to  them  yet. 

Leonard. 
You  were  to  do  it  after  I  left  you  on  Monday. 

Zoe. 
I — I've  been  feeling  so  cheap,  Len. 

Leonard. 

[With  a  short  laugh.]  We  shall  be  grey-haired  before 
we're  married,  at  this  rate.  [She  lays  her  hand  on  his  ap- 
peasingly.  He  retains  her  hand.]  I  believe  you'll  have  to 
go  through  the  form  of  trying  to  compel  Blundell  to  return 


act  n]  MID-CHANNEL  371 

to  you.  Of  course,  he'll  refuse.  Meanwhile  we  must  have 
the  lady's  house  watched — or  Blundell's  flat.  I  shouldn't 
be  surprised  if  he'd  arrange  that  part  of  the  business  with 
you,  to  save  trouble  and  expense.  Drop  a  line  to  Maxwells 
to-day,  will  you? 

Zoe. 
[Obediently.]     Yes. 

Leonard. 

Or  ring  them  up.    You'll  be  able  to  get  out  to-morrow — 
or  one  of  them  would  wait  on  you. 

Zoe. 
Yes. 

Leonard. 

That's  right,  old  girlie.    Kiss  me.     [They  kiss  quickly  and 
cautiously,  without  ardour.]     Sorry. 

Zoe. 
[Turning   to    him   and   lowering   her  voice   almost   to   a 
whisper.]     Lenny 

Leonard. 
What? 

Zoe. 
Don't  forget — Perugia. 

Leonard. 
[In  an  outburst.]      Oh,  yes — curse  the  place! — let's  for- 
get Perugia.     I  was  off  my  head  there.     I  behaved  like  a 
blackguard.     You  needn't  be  continually  throwing  it  in  my 
teeth. 

Zoe. 
No,  no;  I'm  not  scolding  you  again.     [Gently.]     What 
I  mean  is — your  breaking  your  word  to  me  at  Perugia — stay- 
ing in  the  same  hotel 


372  MID-CHANNEL  [act  ii 

Leonard. 
Well? 

ZOE. 
If  Theodore's  solicitors  got  hold  of  that 

Leonard. 
[Rising  and   walking   away.]      Yes,   but  they  won't   get 
hold  of  it. 

Zoe. 
[Tiuisting  herself  round  tozuards  him.]      You  remember 
our   meeting    Claud    Lowenstein    at   the  railway   station   at 
Arezzo  ? 

Leonard. 
I  explained  to  him  that  my  being  in  the  train  with  you 
was  pure  chance.    I  made  that  square. 

Zoe. 
He  was  going  to  Perugia — to  the  Brufani.     [Rising.]     He 
may  have  been  suspicious — he  may  have  inquired 

Leonard. 
Even  that  little  swine  wouldn't  tell  tales. 

Zoe. 
[Coming  to  him.]     Then  there's  Lena — they  might  pump 

Lena 

Leonard. 
My  dear  girl,  all  this  would  be  very  terrible  if  Blundell 
wasn't  as  anxious  to  get  rid  of  you  as  we  are  to  get  rid  of 
him.     No,  you  take  my  word  for  it — he  won't  defend.     His 
game  is  to  be  free  at  any  price. 

Zoe. 
To  marry  again  perhaps! 


act  n]  MID-CHANNEL  373 

Leonard. 
Probably. 

Zoe. 

[Clenching  her  hands. ,]     Ah,  no! 

Leonard. 
[His  brow  darkening  again.]      Doesn't  that  please  you? 
There's  no  satisfying  you,  Zoe.     [She  leaves  him  and  paces 
the  room  distractedly.]     A  minute  ago  you  were  frightened 
lest  he  should  be  ruined  by  Mrs.  Annerly ! 

Zoe. 
[On   the  left.]      I — I  couldn't  bear  the  idea  of  another 
woman  being  a  better  wife  to  him  than  I  was!     I  couldn't 
bear  it,  Lenny! 

Leonard. 

Why,  what  concern  would  it  be  of  yours ! 

[With  a  gesture,  as  the  glazed  door  opens.]     Sssh! 

[Warren  appears. 
Warren. 
[To  Zoe.]     I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am — Mr.  Mottram. 

Zoe. 
[Uttering  a  little,  eager  cry.]     Ah! 

Warren. 
He'll  call  again,  ma'am,  if  you're  engaged. 

Zoe. 
Did  you  say  I — I'd  anybody  with  me? 

Warren. 
No,  ma'am. 

Zoe. 

[After  a  slight  pause — indicating  the  adjoining  room.]     Is 
that  room  still  covered  up? 


374  MID-CHANNEL  [act  n 

Warren. 
Yes,  ma'am. 

Zoe. 

Well — show  him  in  there  for  the  moment. 

Warren. 
Yes,  ma'am. 

[He  withdraivs,  closing  the  door. 

Zoe. 
[To  Leonard,  in  a  low  voice.]     He'd  better  not  find  you 
here  so  early. 

Leonard. 

[Also  dropping  his  voice,  testily.]     Why  need  you  bother 
yourself  with  old  Peter  this  morning? 

Zoe. 
[Bringing  Leonard  his  hat  and  cane.]      I  haven't  seen 
him   since  January.      Don't  look   so   cross.      [Caressing   his 
cheek.]     Are  you  engaged  to  lunch  anywhere? 

Leonard. 
No. 

Zoe. 
Will  you  eat  your  lunch  with  me? 

[He  nods.  She  takes  a  poivder-puff  from  her  bag  and, 
looking  into  the  hand-mirror,  hurriedly  removes  the 
traces  of  her  tears.  While  she  is  thus  occupied, 
Leonard  listens  at  the  nearer  door  on  the  right. 

Leonard. 
[Leaving  the  door — in  a  ivhisper.]      He's  there. 

[Warren  reappears. 

Warren. 
[To  Zoe.]      Mr.  Mottram  is  in  the  next  room,  ma'am. 


act  11]  MID-CHANNEL  375 

ZOE. 

Thank  you. 

[Warren  withdraws. 
Zoe. 
[To  Leonard,  in  a  whisper,  accompanying  him  to  the 
glazed  door.]  Go  into  the  Park  and  sit  under  the  trees. 
Blow  a  kiss  for  me  to  all  the  kiddies.  [She  watches  him  dis- 
appear down  the  corridor.  Then,  having  closed  the  glazed 
door,  she  opens  the  further  door  on  the  right.]      Peter! 

Peter. 
[Out  of  sight.]     My  dear  lady! 

Zoe. 

[Going  into  the  next  room.]  Why  on  earth  have  they 
put  you  into  this  dismal  room!  Come  into  the  light.  [Re- 
turning with  him,  her  arm  tucked  through  his.]  Oh,  my  dear 
Peter — my  dear  Peter ! 

Peter. 
Ah,  yes,  yes,  yes!    A  nice  way  to  serve  a  pal! 

Zoe. 
[Closing  the  door.]     How  did  you ? 

Peter. 
Jim   Mallandain   dropped   in   at  the   office   this  morning. 
[They  leave  the  door.]      He  travelled  with  you  from  Paris 
on  Sunday. 

Zoe. 

I  collided  with  him  at  the  Gare  du  Nord. 

Peter. 
And  this  is  Wednesday! 

Zoe. 
[Withdrawing  her  arm.]     I  funked  sending  for  you;  that's 
a  fact. 


376  MID-CHANNEL  [act  ii 

Peter. 
Funked  it? 

Zoe. 
[With  the  air  of  a  child  in  disgrace.]     Your  letters  to  me 
have  been  awfully  sweet,  but  I  know  you  despise  me  for 
making  a  muck  of  things. 

Peter. 
[Protestingly.]     Ah,  Mrs.  Zoe! 

Zoe. 
And  I'm  rather  a  sick  rabbit,  Peter.      [Turning  away.] 
A  sick  rabbit  has  only  one  desire — to  hide  in  its  burrow. 
[Facing   him.]      My   heart   bounded   when    you   were   an- 
nounced, though. 

Peter. 
[Following   her.]      You    don't    look   very   fit.        Seen    a 
doctor  ? 

Zoe. 
I've  let  Lena  call  in  Rashleigh,  to  humour  her;    [sitting 
on  the  settee  on  the  right]  and  I've  promised  to  swallow  his 
pig-wash. 

Peter. 
What's  he  say? 

Zoe. 
Chill;    but — [raising    her    eyes    to    his]     between    our- 
selves ? 

Peter. 
Honour. 

Zoe. 
[With  quivering  lips.]     Life,  dear  old  chum! 

Peter. 
[Tenderly.]     Ain't  much  in  it? 


act  n]  MID-CHANNEL  377 

ZOE. 
Dam    little.       [Putting    her   hair   back    from    her   brow.] 
Phew!    Can't  sleep,  Peter. 

Peter. 
Oh,  lor! 

ZOE. 

I  tumble  into  bed  at  twelve — one — two.  I  get  an  hour's 
stupor,  from  sheer  fatigue,  and  then  I'm  wide-awake — think- 
ing! Then,  dressing-gown  and  slippers  and  the  cigarettes; 
and  then  it's  to  and  fro,  up  and  down — smoke — smoke — 
smoke — often  till  the  servants  start  brushing  the  stairs.  No 
game,  eh? 

Peter. 

How  long  has  this ? 

Zoe. 

It  began  at — [checking  herself]  oh,  a  devil  of  a  while. 
[With  a  shiver.]  But  I'm  worse  now  I've  set  foot  again  in 
this  house. 

Peter. 
[Eyeing  her  keenly.]      Ghosts?      [Avoiding  his  gaze,  she 
stretches  out  her  hand  towards  the  cigarette  box.    He  pushes 
the  box  beyond  her  reach.     She  makes  a  grimace.     There  is 

a  pause.]     Zoe 

Zoe. 
Well? 

Peter. 
[Deliberately.]     Why  shouldn't  you  pick  up  the  pieces? 

Zoe. 
Pick  up — the  pieces? 

Peter. 
You  and  Theodore. 

Zoe. 
Oh — don't  be — funny,  Peter. 


378  MID-CHANNEL  [act  ii 

Peter. 
I'm  not  funny;  I'm  as  serious  as  the  clown  at  the  circus. 
[Another  pause.]     Write  to  him — or  give  me  a  message  to 
take  to  him.    See  him. 

[She  gets  to  her  feet  and  attempts  to  pass  Peter.     He 
detains  her  and  she  sinks  back  among  her  pillows. 

Zoe. 
Ha,  ha!     You  ridiculous  man!      [Faintly.]      Pick  up  the 
pieces!     As  if  that  were  possible! 

Peter. 

Oh,  the  valuable  family  china  is  in  a  good  many  frag- 
ments, I  admit.  But  there  are  the  fragments,  lyin'  on  the 
carpet.    They  can  be  collected,  fitted  together. 

Zoe. 
[With  a  sudden  gesture  of  entreaty.]     Ah,  for  God's  sake, 

Peter ! 

Peter. 

Why,  I'm  suggestin'  nothin'  unusual. 

Zoe. 
[Repeating  her  gesture.]      Sssh  ! 

Peter. 

Go  into  the  homes  of  three-fifths  of  the  married  people  you 
know — /  know — and  you'll  find  some  imposin'  specimens  of 
porcelain  that  won't  bear  inspectin'  very  narrowly. 

Zoe. 
[Waving  the  subject  away.]     Sssh,  sssh! 

Peter. 

Only  yesterday  afternoon  I  was  callin'  at  a  house  in — 
never  mind  the  district.  I  was  wanderin'  round  the  drawin'- 
room,    lookin'    at    the    bric-a-brac,    and    there,    on    a    Louis 


act  n]  MID-CHANNEL  379 

Quatorze  console-table,  were  as  handsome  a  pair  of  old 
Chinesejars — genuine  Mings — as  ever  I've  met  with.  Such 
a  sooperb  glaze  they've  got,  such  depth  o'  colour!  They 
appear  to  be  priceless,  perfect,  till  you  examine  'em  closely; 
and  then — !  My  dear  Zoe,  they're  cracked  ;  they've  both  had 
a  nasty  knock  at  some  time  or  another;  they're  scarred 
shockin'ly  with  rivets  and  cement.  And  while  I  was  sheddin' 
tears  over  'em,  in  sailed  madam,  smilin'  and  holdin'  out  her 
hand   to  me — she'd   been   upstairs,   rubbin'  carmine  on  her 

lips 

Zoe. 
[In  a  murmur.]     You  horror! 

Peter. 
How  kind  of  me  to  call — and  how  wild  Tom  'ud  be  at 
missin'  me!  To  the  casual  observer,  she's  the  happiest 
woman  goin';  and  Tom,  who  strolled  in  just  as  I  was  leavin', 
might  be  the  most  domesticated  of  husbands.  You  follow 
me?  You  grasp  the  poetic  allegory?  Those  faulty  old  Mings 
are  emblematic  of  the  establishment  they  adorn.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Tom  fell  out  years  ago;  they  turned  against  each  other 
one  fine  day — in  mid-Channel — and  hadn't  the  sense  to  kiss 
and  be  friends  on  landin' ;  their  lives  are  as  damaged  as  those 
wounded  crocks  of  theirs  on  the  console-table.  [Persua- 
sively.] Well,  but  ain't  it  wiser  to  repair  the  broken  china, 
rather  than  chuck  the  bits  into  the  dust-bin?  It's  still  showy 
and  effective  at  a  distance;  and  there  are  cases — rare,  but 
they  exist — where  the  mendin's  been  done  so  neatly  that  the 
flaws   are   almost   imperceptible.      [Seating   himself   opposite 

Zoe.]     Zoe 

Zoe. 
[Almost  inaudibly.]     Yes,  Peter? 

Peter. 
[Leaning  forivard.]      I  believe  yours  is  one  of  the  cases — 
yours  and  Theodore's — where  the  mendin'  would  be  excep- 
tionally successful. 


380  MID-CHANNEL  [act  ii 

ZOE. 

What  do  you — what  do  you  mean? 

Peter. 

My  dear,  old  Theo  is  as  miserable  over  this  affair  as  you 
are. 

Zoe. 

[Attempting  a  disdainful  smile.}      N-nonsense! 

Peter. 
Oh,  no,  it  ain't  nonsense. 

Zoe. 
W-what  makes  you  think  that  ? 

Peter. 

Between  ourselves? 

Zoe. 
[A  note  of  eagerness  in  her  voice.]     Honour. 

Peter. 
He  shows  it  in  all  manner  o'  ways.  Neglects  his  business 
— ain't  much  good  at  it  when  he  doesn't — is  losin'  his  grip 
— looks  confoundedly  ill — is  ill.  Altogether  he's  a  different 
man  from  the  man  he  was,  even  when  matters  were  at  boilin' 
point  here. 

Zoe. 

[Locking  and   unlocking   her  fingers.]      Does   he  ever — 
speak  of  me? 

Peter. 
Oh,  lor',  yes. 

Zoe. 
N-not  kindly? 

Peter. 
Very.     Very  kindly. 


act  n]  MID-CHANNEL  381 

ZOE. 

[After  a  silence,  as  if  in  pain.]      Oh !      [She  rises, 

passes  him,  and  goer  to  the  other  side  of  the  room  where  she 
moves  from  one  piece  of  furniture  to  another  aimlessly.) 
W-what's  he  say  about  me? 

Peter. 

[Not  turning.]  Frets  about  you — wonders  how  you're 
gettin'  along — wonders  as  to  the  state  of  your  finances — can't 
bear  the  idea  of  your  bein'  in  the  least  pinched — wants  to 
help  you. 

Zoe. 

He's  extremely  generous! 

Peter. 
Theo?     Never  was  anythin'  else. 

Zoe. 
[Her  eyes  flashing.]      His  own  expenses  must  be  pretty 
considerable  just  now,  too! 

Peter. 

[Pricking  up  his  ears.]  Must  they?  [With  great  art- 
lessness.]     Why? 

Zoe. 
Oh,  do  you  imagine  I  live  with  wool  in  my  ears? 

Peter. 
[Over  his  shoulder.]      Wool ? 

Zoe. 
This  woman  he's  continually  with !  [  Peter's  face  is  still 
averted  from  Zoe.  At  this  juncture  his  eyes  open  widely  and 
his  mouth  shapes  to  a  whistle.]  This — Mrs. — Mrs. — what's 
her  name — Annerly!  [Pacing  the  room.]  A  notorious 
woman — a  woman  without  a  shred  of  character — an  any- 
man's-woman ! 


382  MID-CHANNEL  [act  ii 

Peter. 

{Settling  his  features  and  turning  his  chair  towards  Zoe 
— in  a  tone  of  expostulation.]     Oh! 

Zoe. 
A  baby-faced  thing — seven  years  younger  than  I  am !    Pre- 
cisely the  class  of  goods  a  man  of  Theo's  age  flies  at! 

Peter. 

Oh— oh ! 

Zoe. 
They're  rather  costly  articles,  aren't  they ! 

Peter. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Zoe 

Zoe. 

Oh,  don't  you  pretend  to  be  so  innocent,  Peter!  You 
know  jolly  well  he's  all  over  the  place  with  her.  They  were 
at  Hurlingham  together  Saturday  week. 

Peter. 
[Coolly.]     I  dessay. 

Zoe. 

And  they  dine  tete-a-tete  at  the  Savoy,  Ritz's,  the  Carl- 
ton  

Peter. 
Who  supplies  the  information? 

Zoe. 
They  were  at  the  Carlton  last  night. 

Peter. 
Who's  told  you  that  ? 

Zoe. 

L 

[She  pulls  herself  up. 


act  n]  MID-CHANNEL  383 

Peter. 

[Curiously.]     Who? 

Zoe. 

[Moistening  her  lips.]  Oh,  I — I  first  heard  of  it  all 
from  Jim  Mallandain.  He  was  full  of  it  on  board  the  boat 
on  Sunday. 

Peter. 

Was  he!     [Rising  lazily.]     A  busy  gentleman — Jim. 

Zoe. 

It  was  Jim  who  met  them  at  Hurlingham — had  tea  with 
'em. 

Peter. 

[Curiously  again.]  But  it  can't  be  Jim  who's  blabbed 
about  last  night. 

Zoe. 
Why? 

Peter. 

[Shrugging  his  shoulders.]  He  happened  to  mention  this 
mornin'  that  he  was  with  a  party  at  Jules'. 

Zoe. 

[Confused.]  N-no,  it  isn't  from  Jim  I've  got  that.  I — 
[throwing  herself  into  the  arm-chair  near  the  glazed  door.] 
Oh,  but  really  it's  a  matter  of  supreme  indifference  to  me, 
Peter,  my  dear  boy,  whom  Theodore  entertains  at  the  Carl- 
ton, or  whom  he  entertains  at  his  flat 

Peter. 
[Coming  to  her.]     My  dear  Zoe • 

Zoe. 
[Laughing  heartily.]     Ha,  ha,  ha!     His  flat!     I  hear  it's 
quite  sumptuous.     After  his  pathetic  yearnings  for  peace  and 
quiet  in  a  garret,  he  sets  up,  within  a  month  of  our  separat- 


384  MID-CHANNEL  [act  ii 

ing,  in  an  enormous  flat  in  Cavendish  Square!  I  received 
that  bit  of  news  when  I  was  in  Florence.  I — I  was  intensely 
amused.     Oh,  let  him  wallow  in  his  precious  flat ! 

Peter. 
[Argumentatively .]      My  dear  lady 


Zoe. 

[Her  hand  to  her  brow,  exhausted.]  Ah,  drop  it,  Peter; 
drop  it! 

Peter. 

I  ask  you — a  liberal-minded  person — what  'ud  become  of 
friendship  as  an  institootion  if  men  and  women  couldn't  he 
pals  without  havin'  the — the — what-d'ye-call-it — the  tongue 
of  scandal  wagged  at  'em?  The  world  'ud  be  intolerable. 
It  ain't  all  marmalade  as  it  is;  but  if  a  fellow  can't  take  the 
fresh  air  in  the  company  of  a  female  at  Hurlingham,  or  give 
her  a  bite  o'  food  at  a  restaurant 

Zoe. 

[Her  head  against  the  back  of  her  chair,  her  eyes  closed.] 
Ah,  la,  la,  la! 

Peter. 

As  for  this — er — this  Mrs.  Annerly 

[He  again  purses  his  mouth  and  is  evidently  in  a  dif- 
ficulty. 

Zoe. 
[Her  eyes  still  shut.]     Well? 

Peter. 
It's  true  she  chucked  Annerly  for  another  chap.     I  don't 
condone   an    act   of    that    description — except    that    I    knew 
Annerly,  and  if  ever  there  was  a  dull  dog 

Zoe. 
Was  he  duller  than  Theo? 


act  n]  MID-CHANNEL  385 

Peter. 

Ob,  go  on  with  yer!  And  since  then  she's  been  a  trifle — 
flighty — perhaps,  now  and  again;  [with  a  gulp]  but  to-day 
she  might  be  your  maiden  aunt. 

Zoe. 
[Dreamily.]     You  humbug,  Peter! 

Peter. 

[Sitting  beside  her,  upon  the  fauteuil  stool.]  Oh,  I'm  not 
maintainin'  that  we  men  always  select  our  women  pals  from 
the  right  basket.  I'm  not  sayin'  that  we  don't  make  asses 
of  ourselves  occasionally,  sometimes  from  sentiment,  some- 
times from  vanity,  sometimes  from — various  causes.  But 
the  same  remark  applies  to  you  women  over  your  men-pals. 
[Laying  a  hand  on  her  arm.]  For  instance — [she  opens  her 
eyes]  for  instance,  here  you  are,  fhrowin'  stones  at  old  Theo 
with  regard  to  Alice  Annerly.  [Significantly.]  My  dear, 
there  are  a  few  panes  o'  glass  in  the  house  you  live  in,  bear 
in  mind. 

[She  sits  upright,  looking  at  him. 


Zoe. 


In  the  house — I- 


Peter. 

[Gravely.]  Mrs.  Zoe,  what  you  did  when  you  were 
under  your  husband's  protection  is  one  thing;  what  you  do 
now  is  another  bag  o'  nuts  entirely.  And  a  woman  situated 
as  you  are  ought  to  be  careful  of  retainih'  a  cub  among  her 
intimates. 

Zoe. 
A  cub? 

Peter. 
Cub. 


386  MID-CHANNEL  [act  ii 

Zoe. 
[Apprehensively.]      To  whom — are  you  alluding? 

Peter. 
Lenny  Ferris. 

Zoe. 
L — enny? 

Peter. 

It  ain't  an  agreeable  job,  pitchin'  into  a  fellow  you've  been 
on  good  terms  with;  but  the  fact  remains — to  put  it  mildly 
— that  Master  Lenny's  a  stoopid,  blunderin'  cub. 

Zoe. 
[Haughtily  but  palpitatingly.]     He's  nothing  of  the  kind. 
What  has  he  done  that  you  should  abuse  him? 

Peter. 
It's  he  who's  told  you  that  Theodore  was  at  the  Carlton 
last  night,  ain't  it?     [She  drops  her  eyes.]     Been  here  this 
mornin'? 

Zoe. 

[Raising  her  eyes,  boldly.]     Yes. 

Peter. 

H'm!     The  sick  rabbit  doesn't  hide  in  her  burrow  from 
everybody. 

Zoe. 
H— how ? 

Peter. 

I  saw  your  lips  make  an  L  just  now,  before  you  could 
put  the  stopper  on. 

Zoe. 

Ha,  ha!    You  ought  to  have  been  a  professional  detective. 


act  ii]  MID-CIIANNEL  387 

Peter. 

[Sctoivling.]      Ferris  has  kept  out  of  my  wav  lately,   or 
I 

ZOE. 

If  he  has  run  in  here  for  a  moment — to  ask  whether  I'm 
back — is  there  anything  particularly  cubbish  in  that? 

Peter. 
It  wasn't  that  I  was  referrin'  to. 

Zoe. 
N— no? 

Peter. 

I  was  referrin'  to  his  havin'  the  damned  presumption  to 
dance  attendance  on  you  in  Italy. 

Zoe. 
[Aghast.]     I — Italy? 

Peter. 
He  was  at  Perugia  while  you  were  there. 

Zoe. 

Oh — Perugia 

Peter. 
[With  a  shrug.]     And  other  places,  I  assoom. 

Zoe. 
[After  a  pause,  pulling  herself  together.]  H — ho!  [mim- 
icking P eter.]  And  who  supplies  the  information?  [Peter 
waves  the  question  from  him.]  Lowenstein,  by  any  chance 
— Claud  Lowenstein?  [Peter,  looking  down  his  nose,  is 
silent.  She  rises  and  walks  aivay  from  him.]  The  hound — 
the  little  hound ! 

Peter. 

Lowenstein  came  across  you  both  at  some  railway  station. 
He  arrived  at  Perugia  the  day  you  left. 


388  MID-CHANNEL  [act  ii 

ZoE. 

[Pacing  the  room  on  the  right.}     The  contemptible  little 
hound ! 

Peter. 
He  put  up  at  the  Brufani  too. 

ZOE. 

[Stopping  in  her  walk — under  her  breath.]     Ah! 

Peter. 

Master  Lenny  might  at  least  have  had  the  common  decency 
to  quarter  himself  at  another  hotel. 

Zoe. 
The — the    Brufani    is    the    most    comfortable — the — [A 
pause.]     I — I  suppose  it  was  thoughtless  of  Lenny. 

Peter. 
[Quietly.]     Cub! 

Zoe. 
[Approaching  Peter.]      Does — Theodore — know? 

Peter. 
[Nodding.]     Lowenstein  went  to  him  with  it. 

Zoe. 
Ha,  ha!     A  busy  gentleman — Claudy  Lowenstein!     [Fal- 
teringly.]     It — it  was  all  my  fault,  Peter.     If — if  anybody's 
to  blame,  I  am.     I — I  wrote  to  the  boy  from  Florence — com- 
plaining of  feeling  lonely 

Peter. 
That  doesn't  excuse  him. 

Zoe. 

[Touching  Peter's  shoulder  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers.] 
What — what  does  Theodore ? 


act  ii]  MID-CHANNEL  389 

Peter. 
He's  savage. 

Zoe. 
Savage  ? 

Peter. 

[Rising.]     He'd  like  to  punch  Ferris's  head — as  I  should. 

Zoe. 

[In  a  loiv  voice.]  Savage — !  [Slowly.]  He — he's  jeal- 
ous then?  [A  shrug  from  Peter.  Her  eyes  light  up.]  Jeal- 
ous! [A  pause.]  Peter — no  man's  jealous  over  a  woman — 
unless  he — unless  he  cares  for  her!  [Plucking  at  his  sleeve.] 
Peter ! 

Peter. 

You've  heard  me  say  old  Theo's  miserable — desperately 
wretched. 

Zoe. 

He — he's  grown  fond  of  me  again — fond  of  me ! 

Peter. 

My  dear,  you  and  he  have  never  left  off  bein'  fond  o'  one 
another,  actually.  As  I  warned  you,  you've  only  been  tossin' 
about,  both  of  you,  on  a  bit  o'  troubled  water. 

[She  stares  at  him  for  a  moment  with  an  expressionless 
face  and  then,  as  if  stupefied,  seats  herself  in  the  chair 
on  the  left  of  the  oblong  table. 

Peter. 
[Standing  before  her.]  Well,  at  any  rate,  you'll  let  this 
Italian  business  be  a  lesson  to  you  not  to  rush  at  conclusions 
respectin'  other  people.  So,  come  now;  won't  you  try  to 
patch  it  up?  I'll  bet  my  noo  hat,  Theodore'll  meet  you  half- 
way.    [Urgently.]     Zoe! 

Zoe. 
[Locking  and  unlocking  her  fingers  again.]      Peter 


390  MID-CHANNEL  [act  ii 

Peter. 
Eh? 

ZOE. 

Your  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tom — the  world  perhaps  never  heard 
of  their  fall-out. 

Peter. 
What  o'  that? 

Zoe. 

Everybody  is  aware  of  the  split  between  me  and  Theo. 

Peter. 
Everybody!     A  handful!     Besides,  nothin'  is  even  a  nine 
days'  wonder  in  these  times.     [A  pause.]     Will  you  do  it? 

Zoe. 

[Suddenly,  starting  up  and  walking  away  to  the  left.]    Oh, 
no,  no,  no !  I — can't — I  can't ! 

Peter. 

[Following  her.]     Can't? 

Zoe. 
[Helplessly.]     I  can't,  Peter! 

Peter. 
[Taking  her  by  the  arms.]     Oh — ! 

Zoe. 
I — I  mean  I — I'm  sure  it  wouldn't  answer — I'm  sure 


Peter. 

My  dear  girl 

Zoe. 

[Piteously.]     Ah,  don't — don't!     [Escaping  from  him  and 
crossing  to  the  right.]     Oh,  leave  me  alone! 

[Warren  enters  at  the  glazed  door. 


act  ii]  MID-CHANNEL  391 

Warren. 
[To  Zoe.]     Miss  Pierpoint  is  downstairs,  ma'am. 

Zoe. 
[Seizing  upon  the  interruption.]     Ah,  yes! 

Warren. 

I'm  to  give  you  her  love,  ma'am,  and  if  it  isn't  convenient 
for  you  to  see  her 

Zoe. 

It  is — it  is — quite  convenient — quite.  [Warren  with- 
draws, closing  the  door.]  I'm  awfully  sorry,  my  dear  Peter, 
but  this  child  wants  to  consult  me  about  something — some- 
thing important.  [Giving  him  her  hands.]  I  must  kick  you 
out.    You  don't  feel  hurt,  do  you? 

Peter. 
[Ruefully.]     Confound  Miss  Pierpoint!     Zoe 


Zoe. 
What? 

Peter. 
You'll  think  it  over? 

Zoe. 
[Putting  her  hand  to  his  lips.]     Ah ! 

Peter. 

[Holding  her  hand.]     No,  no.     Think  it  over.     Ask  me 
to  dine  with  you  one  night  next  week. 

Zoe. 

Monday — Tuesday ? 

Peter. 

Monday. 


392  MID-CHANNEL  [act  ii 

ZOE. 

[Artfully.]      Ah,  but   I  shall  lay  in  a  chaperon  for  the 
occasion. 

Peter. 
Rats !    How  can  I  talk  to  you  before  a  chaperon  ? 

Zoe. 
Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha!     [She  runs  to  the  glazed  door,  opens  it, 
and,   going   into    the   corridor,   calls   loudly   and   excitedly.] 

Ethel — Ethel — Ethel !     [Ethel  appears  in  the  corridor 

and  Zoe  embraces  her  with  an  excess  of  warmth.]  My  dear 
Ethel!  My  dear  child!  [They  kiss.]  What  ages  since 
we've  seen  each  other!  [Bringing  Ethel  into  the  room.] 
You  know  Mr.  Mottram? 

Ethel. 
[Going  to  Peter.]     Oh,  yes. 

Peter. 

[Shaking  hands  ivith  her.]      How-d'ye-do,  Miss  Pierpoint 
— and  au  revoir. 

Ethel. 

[As  he  moves  towards  the  glazed  door.]     I'm  not  driving 
you  away? 

Peter. 
I  forgive  you. 

[He  rejoins  Zoe  who  is  near  the  door.     Ethel  lays  her 
sunshade  upon  the  writing-table. 

Zoe. 
[To  Peter.]     Monday  night? 

Peter. 
Monday  night. 


act  ii]  MID-CHANNEL  393 

ZOE. 

Half-past  eight. 

Peter. 

[At  the  door,  dropping  his  voice.]     A  chaperon? 

ZOE. 

{Mockingly.]     The  proprieties! 

Peter. 
You  cat ! 

[He  goes. 
Zoe. 

[Closing  the  door.]  Ha,  ha!  [She  leans  wearily  against 
the  door  for  a  moment  and  again  puts  back  her  hair  from  her 
brow.  Her  manner  now  becomes  strained,  artificial,  distrait. 
She  advances  to  Ethel.]  Now,  then!  [Ethel  turns  to 
her.]  Let  me  have  a  good  squint  at  you.  How's  your  dear 
mother  ? 

Ethel. 

[Who  is  pale  and  sad-looking.]  Mother's  flourishing. 
[Leaving  the  writing-table.]  You're  not  angry  with  me  for 
rushing  you  at  this  hour? 

Zoe. 

Isn't  this  our  old  hour  for  a  chat? 

Ethel. 

We  were  at  Madame  Levine's  yesterday — mother  and  I 
— ordering  frocks,  and  Camille,  the  skirtmaker,  told  us  you 
were  back.    Zoe,  how  unkind  you've  been! 

Zoe. 
Am  I  in  your  bad  books? 

Ethel. 
Why  have  you  treated  us  so  horridly? 


394  MID-CHANNEL  [act  ii 

ZOE. 

Well,  my  dear  child,  the  fact  is — the  fact  is  it  suddenly 
dawned  on  me  that  perhaps  your  mother  mightn't  consider 
me  any  longer  a  suitable  pal  for  her  daughter. 

Ethel. 
[Protestingly.]     Oh! 

ZOE. 

Heaps  of  folks,  you  know,  haven't  much  use  for  single 
married-women. 

Ethel. 

But  we  both  showed  you  that  our  sympathies  were  on  your 
side! 

Zoe. 

Yes,  we  often  sympathise  with  people  we  wouldn't  touch 
with  the  end  of  a  wet  umbrella. 

Ethel. 

[Coming  close  to  Zoe.]  So  that's  the  reason  you  left  off 
answering  my  letters! 

Zoe. 
C-certainly. 

Ethel. 

And  why  we  hear  of  your  return  through  fat  old  Camille ! 
{Fingering  a  jewel  at  Zoe's  neck.]  You've  had  a  pleasant 
time  abroad? 

Zoe. 

[Taking  Ethel's  face  between  her  hands,  abruptly.] 
How  thin  your  face  is,  Ethel ! 

Ethel. 

[Gazing  at  Zoe.]  Your  cheeks  are  not  as  round  as  they 
were. 


act  11]  MID-CHANNEL  395 

ZOE. 

[Leading  Ethel  to  the  settee  on  the  right.]  I  caught  a 
rotten  chill  on  board  the  boat  and  have  been  beastly  seedy. 
[Putting  Ethel  on  the  settee.}  What's  wrong  with  you? 
That's  a  dreary  note  I've  had  from  you  this  morning. 

Ethel. 

[Tracing  a  pattern  on  the  floor  zvith  the  point  of  her 
shoe.}     Now  I'm  with  you,  I — I  can't 


Zoe. 
[Looking  down  upon  her.]     You  want  advice,  you  say. 

Ethel. 
[Tremulously.]     Yes. 

Zoe. 
Or  a  good  shaking. 

Ethel. 

I — I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself  for  being 
so,  but  I — I'm  very  unhappy,  Zoe. 

Zoe. 
Unhappy  ? 

Ethel. 

It's  no  use  my  attempting  to  talk  to  mother.  Mother's 
a  person  who  prides  herself  on  her  level-headedness.  Any- 
body with  a  fixed  income  and  a  poor  circulation  can  be  level- 
headed !  It  only  means  you're  fish-like.  But  you — you're 
warm-blooded  and  human 

Zoe. 
Well? 

Ethel. 
Z-Zoe 

Zoe. 
Yes? 


396  MID-CHANNEL  [act  ii 

Ethel. 
[Her  eyes  on  the  ground.]      Did  you  ever  suspect  that 
there  was  anything  between  Mr.  Ferris  and  me  ? 

Zoe. 
[Calmly,  steadying  herself.]      Mr.  Ferris — and  you? 

Ethel. 
An  attachment. 

Zoe. 

[With  affected  astonishment.]     My  dear  child! 

Ethel. 
[Looking  up.]     Oh,  don't  keep  on  calling  me  "child" !    I'm 
nearly  six-and-twenty.     [Taking  Zoe's  hands.]     Didn't  you 
ever  guess? 

Zoe. 
He — he  always  seemed  delighted  to  meet  you  here. 

Ethel. 

He's  one  of  your  "boys" — hasn't  he  ever  talked  to  you 
about  me? 

Zoe. 
Of  course,  frequently. 

Ethel. 

Never  as  if  he  were — in  love  with  me? 

Zoe. 

[Withdrawing  her  hands.]     I— I  can't  say  that  it— struck 
me 

Ethel. 
[Dejectedly.]     You  didn't  know,  perhaps,  that  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  year — before  you  went  away — he  was  a  great 
deal  in  Sloane  Street? 


act  n]  MID-CHANNEL  397 

ZOE. 

Why,  yes,  he  used  to  have  tea  with  you  and  your  mother 
sometimes,  didn't  he?  [Turning  from  Ethel.]  How  did 
I  hear  that? 

Ethel. 

[Hanging  her  head.]  Very  often  he  came  early  in  the 
afternoon — by  arrangement  with  me — while  mother  was 
resting. 

Zoe. 

[With  a  hard  laugh.]     Ha,  ha!  Ethel! 

Ethel. 
Yes,  worthy  of  a  vulgar  shop-girl,  wasn't  it? 

Zoe. 
[Sitting  in  the  chair  opposite  Ethel.]     He — he  came  early 

in  the  afternoon ? 

Ethel. 

And  we  sat  together,  in  the  fire-light.  I'm  sure  he  loved 
me,  Zoe — then. 

Zoe. 

[Breathing  heavily.]     And — and  you ? 

Ethel. 
[Her  elbows  on  her  knees,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands.] 
Oh,  I'm  a  fool — an  awful  fool! 

Zoe. 
[After    a    silence.]       Did    he    ever — hint — at    marriage? 
[Ethel  nods,  without  uncovering  her  face.]      He  did! 

Ethel. 

[Raising  her  head.]  Well,  we  got  as  far  as  agreeing  that 
a  small  house  in  the  country,  near  his  aunt,  would  be  an  ideal 
state  of  existence.  [Mirthlessly.]  Ha,  ha,  ha!  And  there 
matters  broke  off. 


398  MID-CHANNEL  [act  ii 

ZOE. 

What — what ? 

Ethel. 

All  of  a  sudden  there  was  a  change — a  change  in  his 
manner  towards  me.  He  still  called  on  us,  but  not  so  regu- 
larly; and  by  degrees  his  visits — ceased  altogether.  [She 
passes  her  hand  across  her  eyes  angrily  and,  stamping  her  foot, 
rises  and  moves  to  the  other  side  of  the  room.]  The  last 
time  I  spoke  to  him  was  one  morning  in  the  Row.  Mother 
and  I  were  walking  and  came  face-to-face  with  him.  That 
was  at  the  end  of  February.  He  was  out  of  sorts,  he  said, 
and  was  going  into  Devonshire.  I  presume  he  went.  [  Turn- 
ing to  Zoe  who,  ivith  parted  lips,  is  staring  guiltily  at  the 
carpet.]  He's  in  London  now,  though.  I  saw  him  about 
a  fortnight  ago,  at  the  Opera.  I  was  with  the  Ormerods,  in 
their  box;  he  was  in  the  stalls.  [Touching  Zoe's  shoulder.] 
Zoe 


Yes? 

He's  so  altered. 
Altered  ? 


Zoe. 

Ethel. 

Zoe. 


Ethel. 

In  his  appearance.     You  recollect  how  boyish  and  fresh- 
looking  he  was? 

Zoe. 
Y-yes. 

Ethel. 

All  that's  gone.     He's  become — oh,  but  I  dare  say  you've 
seen  him  since  you've  been  home? 

Zoe. 
J-just  for  a  minute  or  two. 


act  ii ]  MID-CHANNEL  399 

#                                 Ethel. 
You  must  have  noticed ? 

Zoe. 
N-now  you  mention  it 

Ethel. 
I  watched  him  through  the  opera-glass  several  times  during 
the  evening.     [Simply.]     He  looks  like  a  lost  soul. 

Zoe. 
I — I've  never — ha,  ha! — I've  never  made  tke  acquaintance 

of  a  lost — ha,  ha! 

Ethel. 
[After  a  pause.]     Zoe,  do  you  think  anything  has  happened 
to  Lenny  Ferris? 

Zoe. 


H-happened  ? 
Anything  bad. 
Bad? 


Ethel. 
Zoe. 


Ethel. 

Men's  lives  are  constantly  being  wrecked  by  racing,  or 

cards,  or [Half  turning  from  Zoe.]      Oh,  I  oughtn't  to 

know  about  such  things,  but  one  doesn't  live  in  the  dark — 
he  may  have  got  mixed  up  with  some  woman  of  the  wrong 
sort,  mayn't  he? 

Zoe. 

[Rising   quickly   and  walking   away    to    the   left.]      I — I 
really  can't  discuss  topics  of  that  kind  with  you,  Ethel. 

Ethel. 
[Wistfully.]      No;  but  if  he  is  in   any  scrape — any  en- 
tanglement— and  one  could  help  him 


400  MID-CHANNEL  [act  ii 

ZOE. 

[At  the  writing-table,  taking  up  a  bottle  of  salts — faintly.] 
Help  him? 

Ethel. 

Save  him ! 

Zoe. 
[Sniffing  the  salts.]     How — how  romantic  you  are! 

Ethel. 

Am  I!  [Her  elboivs  on  the  back  of  the  arm-chair  by  the 
oblong  table,  timidly.]  Zoe,  would  it  be  possible — in  your 
opinion — would  it  be  possible  for  me  to — to  see  him? 

Zoe. 

[Sitting  in  the  chair  at  the  writing-table.]  See  Mr. 
Ferris  ? 

Ethel. 

[Plucking  at  the  cover  of  the  chair  on  which  she  is  lean- 
ing.] Here — in  your  house — or  elsewhere — see  him  and 
offer  him  my  friendship — a  sister's  friendship?  You  could 
manage  it. 

Zoe. 

My — my  dear! 

Ethel. 

Oh,  yes,  I'm  lacking  in  dignity,  aren't  I — and  self-respect! 
[Coming  forward.]  I've  told  myself  that  a  thousand  times. 
[Warmly.]  But  there  are  quite  enough  dignified  people  in 
the  world  without  me;  and  if  I  could  influence  Lenny,  any- 
one might  have  my  dignity  for  twopence. 

Zoe. 

Influence  him ? 

Ethel. 

For  his  good.  Oh,  I  don't  want  to  boast,  but  I'm  a 
straight,  clean  girl;  and  it  may  be  that,  at  this  particular 


act  ii]  MID-CHANNEL  401 

moment  of  his  life,  the  more  he  sees  of  women  like  you  and 
me  the  better.  However,  if  you  tell  me  the  idea's  improper, 
I'll  accept  it  from  you.  [Approaching  Zoe.]  I'll  take  any- 
thing from  you.  [Appealingly.]  But  don't  tell  me  that,  if 
you  can  avoid  it.  Give  me  the  opportunity,  if  you  can,  of 
showing  him  that  I'm  different  from  most  girls — that  I'm 
above     petty,     resentful     feelings.       [Bending     over    Zoe.] 

Zoe 

[Lena  enters  at  the  further  door  on  the  right,  carrying 
a  silver  salver  on  which  are  a  dose  of  medicine  in  a 
medicine-glass  and  a  dish  of  sweetmeats. 

Lena. 

Your    med'cine!      [Closing    the   door.]      Good    morning, 
Miss  Pierpoint. 

Ethel. 
Ah,  Lena! 

Zoe. 

[To  Ethel,  rising  hastily.]     Excuse  me 

[Lena  advances  and  Zoe  goes  to  her  and,  with  a  shak- 
ing hand,  drinks  the  medicine. 

Lena. 
[To  Zoe.]      Good  gracious,  how  queer  you  look!      [To 
Ethel.]      She's    doing   too    much    to-day,    Miss    Pierpoint. 
[Going   to    Ethel.]    Dr.    Rashleigh    says   she's    frightfully 
below  par. 

Ethel. 

[Picking    up    her    sunshade.]       What    a    shame    of    me! 
[Running  to  Zoe.]      I  won't  stay  another  minute. 

Zoe. 
[Sitting  on  the  settee  on  the  right.]     I  am  a.  little  fatigued. 

Ethel. 
I  ought  to  have  seen  it. 


4o2  MID-CHANNEL  [act  ii 

ZOE. 

I — I'll  write  to  you.  [They  kiss.]  My  love  to  your 
mother. 

Ethel. 

And  when  you  are  well  enough ? 

Zoe. 
I'll  call  upon  her. 

Ethel. 

[To  Lena,  who  precedes  her  into  the  corridor.]     No,  no; 

stop  with  Mrs.  Blundell.     I'm  so  sorry,  Lena 

[Lena  and  Ethel  talk  together  for  a  little  while  in 
undertones;  then  the  girl  disappears.     Lena  returns. 

Lena. 

[Shutting  the  door.]  Silly  chatterbox!  [Finding  Zoe 
lying  at  full  length  upon  the  settee,  her  head  buried  in  a 
pillow.]  Why  do  you  tire  yourself  like  this?  Shall  I  fetch 
you  some  brandy? 

Zoe. 
No. 

Lena. 

[Lowering  her  voice.]     He's  in  the  house  again. 

Zoe. 
Who? 

Lena. 
Mr.  Ferris. 

Zoe. 

[Raising  herself.]     Mr.  Ferris! 

Lena. 

[With  a  jerk  of  her  head  in  the  direction  of  the  next 
room.]  In  there.  [Zoe  sits  upright.]  Warren's  making 
himself  beautiful  and  Clara  answered  the  door.    She  thought 


act  ii]  MID-CHANNEL  403 

you  wefe  by  yourself  and  let  him  come  up.  [Zoe  gets  to  her 
feet.]  I  was  just  bringing  you  your  med'cine  and  met  him. 
[Zoe  goes  to  the  writing-table,  takes  up  the  hand-mirror,  and 
puts  her  hair  in  order.]  Lucky  I'd  heard  that  Miss  Pierpoint 
was  here;  he  didn't  want  to  see  her!    Another  second ! 

Zoe. 
That'll  do.      [Calmly.]     Take  care  I'm  not  interrupted 
again. 

Lena. 

Ah,  now!    Mayn't  I  get  rid  of  him? 

Zoe. 
No.     [Turning.]     Run  away,  please. 

Lena. 

Oh,  very  good.  [Picking  up  the  salver  which  she  has 
placed  upon  a  piece  of  furniture  near  the  glazed  door.] 
You'll  do  exactly  as  you  choose.  [In  the  corridor.]  I  de- 
clare I'd  rather  look  after  a  pack  of  unruly  children  any  day 

in  the  week 

[She  closes  the  door.  Zoe  glances  over  her  shoulder, 
to  assure  herself  that  the  woman  has  left  the  room, 
and  then,  with  a  fierce  light  in  her  eyes,  goes  to  the 
nearer  door  on  the  right  and  throws  it  open. 

Zoe. 
[In  a  hard  voice,  speaking  into  the  adjoining  room.]      I'm 
alone. 

[She  moves  from  the  door  as  LEONARD,  still  carrying 
his  hat  and  cane,  enters. 

Leonard. 

By  George,  that  was  a  narrow  squeak!  [Closing  the 
door.]  Whatever  possessed  you  to  be  at  home  to  the  Pier- 
point  girl  this  morning? 


404  MID-CHANNEL  [act  ii 

ZOE. 

[Coldly.]     I  didn't  expect  you  back  before  lunch. 

Leonard. 

[Putting  his  hat  and  cane  on  the  chair  at  the  nearer  end 
of  the  settee  on  the  right.]  I  was  talking  to  a  man  at  Vic- 
toria Gate  and  I  saw  Peter  driving  away  in  a  Taxi.  [Facing 
her.]  I  got  sick  of  the  Park.  [Seeing  that  something  is 
amiss.]  Hallo!  [A  pause.]  Anyone  been  running  me 
down  ? 

[She  advances  to  him  and,  drawing  herself  to  her  full 
height,  regards  him  scornfully. 

ZOE. 

[Making  a  motion  with  her  hands  as  if  she  would  strike 
him.]  You — you — !  [Dropping  her  hands  to  her  side.] 
Oh,  cruel — cruel — [ivalking  away  from  him]  cruel! 

Leonard. 
What's  cruel?     Who's  cruel! 

Zoe. 
[At  the  further  end  of  the  room,  on  the  right.]      Ah — 

ah ! 

Leonard. 

[Moving  to  the  left.]  Oh,  come!  Let's  have  it  out;  let's 
have  it  out. 

Zoe. 

Sssh!     Don't  raise  your  voice  here. 

Leonard. 
Somebody's  been  talking  against  me.     Ethel  Pierpoint? 

Zoe. 
[Coming  to  the  oblong  table.]     You've  behaved  abomin- 
ably to  this  girl. 


act  n]  MID-CHANNEL  405 

Leonard. 
Ho,  it  is  Miss  Pierpoint ! 

Zoe. 

No,  she  hasn't  spoken  a  word  against  you.  But  she's 
opened  her  heart  to  me. 

Leonard. 

[Going  to  Zoe.]     You've  known  all  about  me  and  Ethel. 

Zoe. 

It's  a  lie.  How  much  have  I  known?  I  knew  that  you 
were  sizing  her  up,  as  you  expressed  it ;  but  I  never  surmised 
that  you'd  as  good  as  proposed  marriage  to  her. 

Leonard. 

I  told  you  months  ago — admitted  it — that  I'd  make  myself 
a  bit  of  an  idiot  over  Ethel.  I  fancied  you  tumbled  to  the 
state  o'  things. 

Zoe. 

Did  you !  Why,  do  you  think — maniac  as  I  was  when  you 
came  through  to  me  to  Florence! — do  you  think  I'd  have 
allowed  you  to  remain  near  me  for  five  minutes  if  I'd  known 
as  much  as  I  do  now ! 

Leonard. 

Look  here,  Zoe 

Zoe. 
Oh,  you're  a  cruel  fellow!  You've  been  cruel  to  her  and 
cruel  to  me.  I  believe  you're  capable  of  being  cruel  to  any 
woman  who  comes  your  way.  Still,  she's  the  fortunate  one. 
Her  scratches'll  heal;  but  I — [sitting  at  the  oblong  table  and 
hitting  it  with  her  fist]  I  loathe  myself  more  than  ever — 
more  than  ever! 

Leonard. 

[After  a  pause.]  Zoe,  I  wish  you'd  try  to  be  a  little  fair 
to  me. 


4o6  MID-CHANNEL  [act  ii 

ZOE. 
{Ironically.}     Fair! 

Leonard. 

Perhaps  I  did  go  rather  further  with  Ethel  Pierpoint  than 
I  led  you  to  understand. 

Zoe. 

Oh ! 

Leonard. 

I  own  up.  Yes,  but  what  prospect  was  there,  when  I 
was  thick  with  her,  of  your  being  free  of  Blundell?  None. 
And  what  was  I  to  you?  Merely  a  pal  of  yours — one  of 
your  "tame  robins" — one  of  a  dozen;  and  I'd  come  to  a  loose 
end  in  my  life.  It  was  simply  the  fact  that  there  was  no 
prospect  for  me  with  you  that  drove  me  to  consider  whether 
I  hadn't  better  settle  down  to  a  humdrum  with  a  decent  girl 
of  the  Ethel  breed.  Otherwise,  do  you  imagine  I'd  have 
crossed  the  street  to  speak  to  another  woman?  [Leaving 
Zoe.]  Oh,  you  might  do  me  common  justice!  [Hotly.]  If 
circumstances  have  made  a  cad  of  me,  am  I  all  black?  Can't 
you  find  any  good  in  me?  [Turning  to  her.]  What  did  I 
tell  you  at  Perugia? 

Zoe. 

[Rising.]     Ah,  don't ! 

Leonard. 

That  I'd  been  in  love  Avith  you  from  the  day  I  first  met 
you — from  the  very  moment  Mrs.  Hope-Cornish  introduced 
me  to  you  at  Sandown !  Well !  Isn't  there  anything  to  my 
credit  on  that  score?  Didn't  I  keep  my  secret?  For  four 
years  I  kept  it ;  though,  with  matters  as  they  often  were  be- 
tween you  and  Blundell,  many  a  man  might  have  thought 
you  ripe  grapes.  [Walking  across  to  the  right.]  Only  once 
I  was  off  my  guard  with  you — when  I  laid  hold  of  you  and 
begged  you,  whatever  happened,  never  to — never  to 


act  n]  MID-CHANNEL  407 

ZOE. 

{Leaning  against  the  table,  her  back  to  him.]     Ha,  ha,  ha! 

Leonard. 

Yes,  and  I  meant  it;  as  God  hears  me,  I  meant  it.  If 
anybody  had  told  me  that  afternoon  that  it  was  I  who — oh, 
hang!  [Sitting  upon  the  settee.]  But  what  I  want  to  im- 
press upon  you  is  that,  if  I  were  quite  the  low  scoundrel  you 
make  me  out  to  be,  I  shouldn't  have  gone  through  what  I 
have  gone  through  these  past  four  years  and  more.  Great 
Scot,  it's  been  nothing  but  hell — hot  hell — all  the  time! 
Four  whole  years  of  pretending  I  was  just  an  ordinary  friend 
of  yours — hell !  Four  years  of  reasoning  with  myself — 
preaching  to  myself — hell !  That  awful  month  after  Blun- 
dell  left  you — when  you'd  gone  to  Italy  and  I  was  in  London 
— worse  than  hell!  My  chase  after  you — our  little  tour  to- 
gether— my  struggle  even  then  to  play  the  correct  game — 
and  I  did  struggle — hell!  And  since  then — hell!  [His 
elbows  on  his  knees,  digging  his  knuckles  into  his  forehead.] 
Hell  all  the  time!     Hell  all  the  time! 

[There  is  a  silence,  and  then,  with  a  look   of  settled 

determination,  she  comes  to  him  slowly  and  lays  her 

hands  upon  his  head. 

ZOE. 
Poor  boy!     I'm  sorry  I  blackguarded  you.     [Sitting  in  the 
chair  opposite  to  him  and  speaking  in  a  steady,  level  voice.] 
Len 

Leonard. 
Eh? 

ZOE. 

Let's  part. 

Leonard. 
[Raising  his  head.]      Part? 


4o8  MID-CHANNEL  [act  ii 

ZOE. 

Say  good-bye  to  each  other.  [Meeting  his  eyes.]  Go  back 
to  that  girl. 

Leonard. 
To  Ethel! 

ZOE. 
Take  up  with  her  again. 

Leonard. 
Oh,  stop  it,  Zo. 

Zoe. 

She's  devoted  to  }tou;  and  she's  sound  right  through,  if 
ever  a  girl  was.     She's  one  of  the  best,  Len. 

Leonard. 

Suppose  she  is 

Zoe. 

Be  careful  that  she  doesn't  guess  I've  given  her  away. 
[He  rises  impatiently.  She  rises  with  him  and  holds  him  by 
the  lapels  of  his  jacket.]  Tell  her — she's  sure  to  ask  you — 
tell  her  that  you  haven't  seen  me  since  last  Monday,  nor  had 
a  line  from  me.  Fake  up  some  tale  to  account  for  your  break- 
ing off  with  her — you  were  in  doubt  whether  you'd  coin 
enough  to  marry  on 

Leonard. 
[Who  has  become  thoughtful.]     Zoe 

Zoe. 
Yes? 

Leonard. 

[Looking  her  full  in  the  face.]  Are  you  giving  me  the 
boot? 

Zoe. 

[Releasing  him  and  returning  his  gaze  firmly.]  Yes;  I 
am. 


act  n]  MID-CHANNEL  409 

Leonard. 

[After  a  pause.]     Oh?     [Another  pause.]     What's  youv 
motive  ? 

ZOE. 

Motive? 

Leonard. 
What's  behind  all  this? 

Zoe. 
[Simply.]     I  want  you  to  be  happy,  Len — really  and  truly 
happy.     I  believe  you'd  stand  a  jolly  good  chance  of  being 
so  with  Ethel  Pierpoint;  never  with  me. 

Leonard. 
And  you? 

Zoe. 
I? 

Leonard. 
What's  to  become  of  you  ?   What  are  your  plans  for  your- 
self? 

Zoe. 

[Avoiding   his  eyes.]      Oh,   don't  you — don't  you  worry 
about  me. 

Leonard. 
Rot! 

Zoe. 
[Nervously.]     Perhaps  some  day — when  Theodore's  tired 
of     Mrs.    Annerly — ha,    ha! — stranger    things    have    hap- 
pened  

Leonard. 
Rot,  I  say.     [She  retreats  a  little.]     Do  you  think  you  can 
drum  me  out  like  this!      [Following  her.]      Have  you  got 

some  other ? 

[He  checks  himself. 


4io  MID-CHANNEL  [act  ii 

ZOE. 

[Confronting  him.]      Some  other ? 


Leonard. 
Oh,  never  mind. 

Zoe. 
Out  with  it! 

Leonard. 
Some  other  fancy-man  in  tow? 

Zoe. 
Ah!    You  brute!     [Hitting  him  in  the  chest.]    You  brute! 
[Throwing  herself  into  the  arm-chair  near  the  glazed  door.] 
You  coward!     You  coward! 

[There  is  a  pause  and  then  he  slouches  up  to  her. 

Leonard. 
I — I  beg  your  pardon.     I  beg  your  pardon.     [He  sits  be- 
side her,  upon  the  fauteuil-stool.]     Knock  my  damned  head 
off.     Go  on.    Knock  my  damned  head  off. 

Zoe. 
[Panting.]      Well — we   won't    part — on    top   of   a   row. 
[Dashing  a  tear  away.]     After  all,  why  should  you  think 
better  of  me  than  that? 

Leonard. 
[Penitently.]     Zoe 

Zoe. 
Sssh!     Listen.     Putting  Ethel  Pierpoint  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, do  you  ever  picture  to  yourself  what  our  married  life 
would  be? 

Leonard. 
What  it  'ud  be? 


act  n]  MID-CHANNEL  4" 

ZOE. 

The  marriage  of  a  woman  of  seven — nearly  eight — and- 
thirty  to  a  man  of  thirty-two !  /  do.  I  walk  my  bedroom 
half  the  night  and  act  it  all  over  to  myself.  And  you've  had 
the  best  of  me,  too;  I'm  not  even  a  novelty  to  you.  Why, 
of  course  you've  realized  what  you've  let  yourself  in  for. 

Leonard. 

I  take  my  oath 

Zoe. 

Sssh !  When  you're  in  front  of  your  glass  in  the  morning, 
what  do  you  see  there? 

Leonard. 
See? 

Zoe. 

This  girl  has  noticed  the  alteration  in  your  looks.  She 
took  stock  of  you  at  the  opera  the  other  night. 

Leonard. 
[Passing  his  hands  over  his  face  consciously.]     Men  can't 
go  to  hell,  Zo,  without  getting  a  bit  scorched. 

Zoe. 
[Imitating  his  action.]     No,  nor  women  either.     [Turn- 
ing to  him.]     But  it's  only  quite  lately  that  you've  lost  your 
bloom,  Len. 

Leonard. 

Oh,  naturally  I've  been  horribly  bothered  about  you — 
about  both  of  us — since 

Zoe. 
Since  your  trip  to  Italy?      [He  nods.]     Yes,  and  natur- 
ally you've  told  yourself,  over  and  over  again,  the  truth — 
since  your  trip  to  Italy. 

Leonard. 
Truth? 


4i2  MID-CHANNEL  [act  ii 

ZOE. 

The  simple  truth — that  you've  got  into  a  mess  with  a 

married  woman 

Leonard. 
I— I 

ZOE. 

And  that  you  must  go  through  with  it,  at  all  costs. 

Leonard. 
I  swear  to  you,  Zoe 


Zoe. 
[Touching   his   hand.]      Oh,   my   dear  boy,   you   haven't 
perhaps  said  these  things  to  yourself,  in  so  many  words,  but 
they're  at  the  back  of  your  brain  just  the  same. 

[She  rises  and  crosses  to  the  fireplace  and  rings  three 
times. 

Leonard. 
[Rising.]     What — what  are  you  doing? 

Zoe. 
Ringing  for  Lena,  to  tell  her  I'm  not  lunching  downstairs. 

Leonard. 

By  God,  Zoe ! 

Zoe. 
[Imperiously.]     Be  quiet! 

Leonard. 

[Shaking  his  fist  at  her.]  You  dare  treat  me  in  this  way! 
You  dare! 

Zoe. 

[Advancing.]  Ah,  I'm  only  hurting  your  pride  a  little; 
I'm  only  mortifying  your  vanity.  You'll  get  over  that  in 
twenty-four  hours. 


act  11]  MID-CHANNEL  41 3 

Leonard. 

Do  you  know  what  you  are;  do  you  know  what  you  make 
yourself  by  this! 

Zoe. 

Yes,  what  you  made  of  me  at  Perugia,  and  at  Siena,  and 

at !      [Suddenly,  clinging   to   him.]      Lenny — Lenny — 

kiss  me ! 

Leonard. 

[Pushing  her  from  him.]     Not  I. 

Zoe. 
Ah,  yes.    Don't  let's  part  enemies.     It's  good-bye.    Lenny! 

Leonard. 

No. 

Zoe. 
[Struggling  with  him  entreatingly.]  Quick!  It's  for 
the  last  time.  You'll  never  be  alone  with  me  again.  [Her 
arms  tightly  round  him.]  It's  for  the  last  time.  [Kissing 
him  passionately.]  Good  luck  to  you!  Good  luck  to  you! 
Good  luck  to  you ! 

[She  leaves  him  and  sits  at  the  writing-table  where  she 
makes  a  pretence  of  busying  herself  ivith  her  papers. 

Leonard. 

[Glancing   expectantly   at   the  glazed  door — between   his 

teeth.]     You — you ! 

[Presently  he  goes  to  the  chair  on  the  right  and  snatches 
up  his  hat  and  cane.     Lena  enters  at  the  glazed  door. 

Lena. 

[To  Zoe.]     Is  it  me  you've  rung  for? 

Zoe. 
Yes.     [Sharply.]     Wait. 


4i4  MID-CHANNEL  [act  ii 

[There  is  a  pause.  Struck  by  Zoe's  tone,  and  the 
attitude  of  the  pair,  Lena  looks  inquisitively  at 
Leonard  and  Zoe  out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes, 
as  if  she  guesses  there  has  been  a  quarrel.  Leonard 
moves  towards  the  door. 

Leonard. 
[To  Zoe.]     Good  morning. 

Zoe. 
Good  morning. 

Leonard. 

[To  Lena,  as  he  passes  her.]     Good  morning. 

Lena. 

Good  morning. 

[He  departs  and  Lena  quietly  closes  the  door. 

ZOE. 

[Rising.]      Lena 

Lena. 
Yes? 

Zoe. 

[Walking  across  to  the  settee  on  the  right.]  I'm  not 
coming  down  to  the  dining-room.  [Sitting,  feebly.]  Let  me 
have  a  snack  upstairs. 

Lena. 
Very  well. 

Zoe. 
That's  all. 

[Lena  withdraws,  almost  on  tip-toe,  and  Zoe  instantly 
produces  her  handkerchief  and  cries  into  it  softly. 
Then  she  gets  to  her  feet  and  searches  for  the  cigarette 
box.  Still  shaken  by  little  sobs,  she  puts  a  cigarette 
between  her  lips  and,  as  she  does  so,  the  expression  of 
her  face  changes  and  her  body  stiffens. 


act  n]  MID-CHANNEL  415 

ZOE. 
[Under  her  breath.]     Oh !     [After  a  moment's  irreso- 
lution, she  hurriedly  dries  her  eyes  and,  going  to  the  glazed 
door,  opens  it,  and  calls.]     Lena — Lena ! 

Lena. 

[In  the  distance.]     Yes? 

[Zoe  returns  to   the   oblong  table  and  is  lighting  her 
cigarette  when  Lena  reappears. 

Zoe. 
Lena 

Lena. 
Well? 

Zoe. 

I'll  dress  directly  after  lunch. 

Lena. 

[Coming  to  her,  surprised.]      Dress? 

Zoe. 
Yes;  I'm  goinj  cut  this  afternoon. 

Lena. 

Going  out!    Why,  you  must  be  crazy ! 


end  of  the  second  act 


i 


D 


O 


^ 


A.f-*-—  «*>■■«• 


\_i 


O 


O 


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o 


o 


>-i  «»#*▼**£* 


THE  THIRD  ACT 

« 

The  scene  is  a  fine,  spacious  room,  richly  furnished  and  decor- 
ated. In  the  centre  of  the  wall  at  the  back  is  the  fire- 
place, and  on  the  left  of  the  fireplace  is  a  door  which 
when  open  reveals  part  of  a  dining-room.  In  the  right- 
hand  wall  there  is  a  bay-window  hung  with  lace  and 
other  curtains.  Facing  the  window,  in  the  wall  on  the 
left,  is  a  double-door  opening  into  the  room  from  a  cor- 
ridor. 

On  either  side  of  the  fireplace  there  is  an  arm-chair, 
and  betiveen  the  fireplace  and  the  dining-room  door 
stands  a  small  table  on  which  are  a  decanter  of  whiskey, 
a  syphon  of  soda-water,  and  two  or  three  tumblers.  A 
grand  piano  and  a  music-stool  are  in  the  right-hand 
corner  of  the  room,  and  on  the  left  of  the  piano  is  a 
settee.  Some  photographs  are  on  the  top  of  the  piano. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  room  there  is  a  second  settee 
with  a  table  at  the  nearer  end  of  it.  An  arm-chair 
stands  by  this  table,  another  at  the  further  end  of  the 
settee.  In  the  bay-window  there  is  a  writing-table  with 
a  writing-chair  before  it,  and  on  the  writing-table  is  a 
telephone-instrument.  Other  articles  of  furniture,  some 
pieces  of  sculpture,  and  some  handsome  lamps  on  ped- 
estals, fill  spaces  not  provided  for  in  this  description. 

A  scarf  of  mousseline  de  soie  and  a  pair  of  white 
gloves  lie  on  the  chair  on  the  right  of  the  fireplace. 

The  fireless  grate  is  hidden  by  a  screen  and,  through 
the  lace  curtains,  which  are  drawn  over  the  window,  a 
fierce  sunlight  is  seen. 

The  door  at  the  back  is  slightly  ajar. 

417 


4i  3  MID-CHANNEL  [act  hi 

[The  telephone  bell  rings  and  presently  Theodore 
Blundell  enters  at  the  door  at  the  back,  and  goes 
to  the  writing-table.  His  step  has  become  heavier, 
his  shoulders  are  somewhat  bent,  and  he  looks  a  "bad 
colour." 

Theodore. 
[At  the  telephone.}  Hallo!  .  .  .  Yes?  ...  I  am  Mr. 
Blundell.  .  .  .  Oh,  is  that  you,  Peter?  .  .  .  What?  .  .  . 
Want  to  see  me?  .  .  .  Anything  wrong?  .  .  .  Where  are 
you?  .  .  .  Where?  .  .  .  Cafe  Royal?  .  .  .  Come  along  to 
me  now,  then.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  say!  .  .  .  Are  you  there?  .  .  . 
[Dropping  his  voice.]  I  say!  Mrs.  A.  is  lunching  with  me. 
.  .  .  Mrs.  A. — Alice.  ...  No,  but  I  thought  I'd  tell  you. 
.  .  .  Good-bye. 

[He  is  about  to  return  to  the  dining-room  when  Mrs. 
Annerly  appears  in  the  doorway  at  the  back.  She 
is  a  pretty,  charmingly-dressed  creature  with  classical, 
immobile  features  and  a  simple,  virginal  air. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Advancing.]  I've  told  Cole  we'll  have  coffee  in  this 
room.  [He  nods  and  sits  moodily  upon  the  settee  on  the 
right.  Resting  her  elbows  on  the  back  of  the  arm-chair  at  the 
further  end  of  the  settee  on  the  left,  she  surveys  her  face  in  a 
tiny  mirror  which  she  carries,  with  some  other  trinkets,  at- 
tached to  a  chain.]  Who's  that  you  were  talking  to  on  the 
'phone,  boy  dear? 

Theodore. 
[Who  is  smoking  a  big  cigar.]      Mottram. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
What's  he  want? 

Theodore. 
Wants  to  see  me  about  something. 


act  in]  MID-CHANNEL  4*9 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

Business? 

Theodore. 
Dun'no. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

[Sweetly.]     He  doesn't  like  poor  little  me. 

Theodore. 
[Indifferently.]     Doesn't  he? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

You  know  he  doesn't.  [Arranging  a  curl.]  That's  why 
you  gave  him  the  tip  that  I'm  lunching  here. 

Theodore. 
Ho!    Listeners — et  catera. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

I  couldn't  help  hearing  you ;  positively  I  couldn't.  [Ex- 
amining her  teeth  in  the  mirror.]  He's  one  of  your  wife's 
tame  cats,  isn't  he? 

Theodore. 

He's  a  friend  of  hers — yes. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
Just  a  friend,  and  nothing  else. 

Theodore. 

[Angrily.]      Now,  look  here,  Alice ! 

[Cole,  a  manservant,  enters  from  the  dining-room  with 
the  coffee  and  liqueurs.  Mrs.  Annerly  takes  a  cup 
of  coffee. 

Cole. 
[To  Mrs.  Annerly.]     Brandy — Kummel,  ma'am? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

No,  thanks. 


420  MID-CHANNEL  [act  hi 

Theodore. 
[To  Cole,  tt'ho  comes  to  him  ivith  the  tray — irritably.] 
Leave  it.     [Cole  places  the  tray  on  the  top  of  the  piano  and 
is  returning  to  the  dining-room.]     Cole 

Cole. 
Yessir? 

Theodore. 
I'm  expecting  Mr.  Mottram. 

Cole. 
Very  good,  sir. 

[  The    man   withdraws,    closing   the   door.      Theodore 
rises  and  pours  some  brandy  into  a  large  liqueur- glass. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Who    has   seated   herself   upon    the   settee   on    the   left.] 
What's  the  matter  with  you  to-day,  boy  dear?     You're  as 
cross  as  two  sticks. 

Theodore. 
Liver. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Sipping  her  coffee.]     I  don't  wonder. 

Theodore. 
Why? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

You're    getting    rather    too    fond    of — [pointing    to    the 
brandy]   h'm,  h'm. 

Theodore. 
[Bluntly.]      It's  false. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[With  undisturbed  complacency.]      I've  seen  so  much  of 
that  sort  o'  thing  in  my  time.      [He  makes  a  movement,  as 
if  to  put  down  his  glass  without  drinking.]     Still,  I  must  say 
you've  every  excuse. 


act  m]  MID-CHANNEL  421 

Theodore. 

Alice 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
What? 

[He  gulps  his  brandy,  puts  the  empty  glass  on  the  tray, 
and  comes  to  her. 

Theodore. 
[Standing  before  her.]     Alice,  will  you  oblige  me  by  re- 
fraining from  making  any  allusion  to  my  wife,  direct  or  in- 
direct, in  the  future?    It  annoys  me. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

Everything  annoys  you  this  afternoon. 

Theodore. 
You  were  at  it  last  night,  at  the  Carlton.     And  to-day, 

during  lunch 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

[In  an  injured  tone.]  It  was  you  who  told  me  that  that 
little  Jew  chap  had  met  her  careering  about  Italy  with  young 
what's-his-name.  [He  sits  in  the  arm-chair  at  the  further  end 
of  the  settee  and  leans  his  head  on  his  hand.]  Ah,  but  that 
was  in  your  loving  days — when  you  used  to  confide  in  me. 

Theodore. 
I  was  in  a  rage  and  said  a  great  deal  more  than  I  thought. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
If  you  did,  you  needn't  jump  on  me  for  trying  to  feel 
interested  in  you  and  your  affairs. 

Theodore. 
[Facing  her.]     At  any  rate,  understand  me  clearly,  Alice 
— and  then  drop  the  subject.     [Shortly.]     Mrs.  Blundell  and 


422  MID-CHANNEL  [act  hi 

I  are  separated ;  she's  gone  one  way,  I  another.  There  were 
faults  on  both  sides,  as  usual,  but  I  was  mainly  to  blame. 
There's  the  thing  in  a  nut-shell. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

This  isn't  in  the  least  your  old  story. 

Theodore. 
Never   mind    my   old   story.       [Extending   a   forefinger.] 
You  forget  the  old  story,  my  girl,  if  you  wish  our  acquaint- 
ance to  continue — d'ye  hear? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Shaking  herself.]     You're  a  nasty  savage. 

Theodore. 
As  for  that  interfering  cad  Lowenstein,  it  unfortunately 
happens  that  one  of  Mrs.  Blundell's  characteristics  is  a 
habit  of  disregarding  les  convenances — a  habit  which  I  didn't 
go  the  right  way  to  check.  It's  probable  that,  before  she's 
done,  she  won't  leave  herself  with  as  much  reputation  as  'ud 
cover  a  sixpence.  She's  impulsive,  reckless,  a  fool — but  she's 
no  worse.  [Eyeing  the  stump  of  his  cigar  fiercely.]  My 
wife's  no  worse.  So,  hands  off,  if  you  please,  in  my  presence. 
Whatever  reports  are  circulated  to  her  discredit,  the  man 
who  speaks  against  her  in  my  hearing  is  kicked  for  his  pains ; 
and  the  woimn  who  does  so,  if  she's  under  my  roof,  gets 
taken  by  the  shoulders  and  shown  the  mat.  [Looking  at 
her.]     Co?nprenez? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

[Pouting.]     I  should  be  a  juggins  if  I  didn't.     Parfaite- 
ment — in  my  very  best  French. 

Theodore. 
[Rising  and  walking  about.]      That's  settled,  then. 


act  in]  MID-CHANNEL  423 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

[After  a  pause,  rising  and  depositing  her  cup   upon   the 
table  on  the  left — thoughtfully.}     Boy  dear 

*  Theodore. 

[At  the  back.}     Hey? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

It  was  regular  cat-and-dog  between  you  two  at  the  end, 
wasn't  it? 

Theodore. 

[Breaking  out  again.]      It's  no  concern  of  yours  whether 
it  was  or  was  not.     I've  asked  you 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Crossing  to  the  right,  ivith  a  shrug.}     Oh ! 

Theodore. 
Yes,  it  was.     [Half-sitting  upon  the  back  of  the  settee  on 
the  left.]     I — I  tired  of  her. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Philosophically.]     Ah,  men  do  tire. 

Theodore. 
And  she  of  me.    We'd  been  married  close  upon  fourteen 
years. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

Oh,  well,  come;  that's  a  long  while. 

Theodore. 
[As  much  to  himself  as  to  her.]     Our  wedding-day's  on 
the  thirtieth  of  this  month.     [Hitting  the  back  of  the  settee 
softly  with  his  fist.]     We'd  reached  a  time  in  our  lives  when 
— when  we  were  in  mid-Channel 


424  MID-CHANNEL  [act  hi 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

Mid-Channel  ? 

Theodore. 
[Rising.]      Oh,  you  don't  know  anything  about  that. 
[There  is  a  further  silence.     She  sits  upon   the  settee 
on   the  right,  watching  him   as   he   moves  about  the 
room  again. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
Here!       [Beckoning    him    with    a    motion    of    her    head.] 
Here!     [He  goes  to  her.    She  looks  up  into  his  face.]     Why 
don't  you  marry  me,  Theo? 

Theodore. 
[Staring  at  her.]      Marry — you? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
You'd  find  me  awfully  easy  to  get  on  with. 

Theodore. 
[Turning  from  her,  quietly.]      Oh ! 


Mrs.  Annerly. 

Wait;  you  might  listen,  anyhow.  [He  turns  to  her.]  I 
am — awfully  easy  to  get  on  with.  And  I'd  be  as  strict  as 
— as  strict  as  a  nun.  Honest  injun !  I  treated  Annerly 
pretty  badly,  but  that's  ancient  history.  I  was  only  seventeen 
when  I  married  Frank — too  inexperienced  for  words.  I've 
learnt  a  lot  since. 

Theodore. 
[Bitterly.]      Ha! 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
Now,  don't  be  satirical.     [Inviting  him  to  sit  by  her  side.] 

Theo [He  sits  beside  her.]      I   say — bar  chaff — I  wish 

you  would. 


act  in]  MID-CHANNEL  425 

Theodore. 
[Absently.]     What? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
Marry  me.     Really  I  do.     [A  note  of  wistfulness  in  her 
voice.]      I  really  do  want  to  re-establish  myself.     My  life, 
these  past  few  years,  has  been  frightfully  unsatisfactory. 

Theodore. 
[Touching  her  dress,  sympathetically.]     Ah! 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
And  I'm  a  lady,  remember — giddy  as  I  may  have  been. 
Put  me  in  any  society  and  I'm  presentable,  as  far  as  manners 
go.  I'd  soon  right  myself,  with  your  assistance.  [Slipping 
her  arm  through  his.]  I  suppose,  under  the  circumstances, 
you  couldn't  divorce  her,  could  you? 

Theodore. 
What  d'ye  mean? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
Your  wife — over  that  Italian  business. 

Theodore. 
[Jumping  up.]      Damn! 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon;  it  slipped  out.  [He  ivalks  away 
to  the  table  at  the  back  and  begins  to  mix  himself  a  whiskey- 
and-soda.]  I'm  dreadfully  grieved;  gospel,  I  am.  [Rising.] 
Don't — don't,  boy  dear.  Do  leave  that  stuff  alone.  [He 
puts  down  the  decanter  and  comes  to  the  settee  on  the  left.] 
I  can't  do  more  than  apologize. 

Theodore. 
[Sitting.]     Tsch!     Hold  your  tongue. 


426  MID-CHANNEL  [act  in 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

[Sitting  beside  him.]  No,  but  you  could  let  her  go  for 
you,  though;  that  could  be  fixed  up.  I'd  even  consent  to  be 
dragged  into  the  case  myself,  if  it  would  help  matters  for- 
ward; and  goodness  knows  I've  no  ambition  to  appear  in  the 
Divorce  Court  again — I  hate  the  hole.  [Coaxingly.]  You 
will  consider  it,  won't  you? 

Theodore. 
Consider  what? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

Marrying  me.  Just  say  you'll  consider  it  and  I  won't 
tease  you  any  more  to-day.  You  do  owe  me  something, 
you  know. 

Theodore. 
Owe  you ? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

Well,  you  have  compromised  me  by  being  seen  about  with 
me  at  different  places  lately;  now,  haven't  you?  [Theodore 
throws  his  head  back  and  laughs  boisterously.]  There's 
nothing  to  laugh  at.  Perhaps  I  haven't  a  shred  of  character 
left,  in  your  estimation! 

Theodore. 
Ho,  ho! 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Rising,  piqued.]     I  presume  you  think  I'm  a  person  who'll 
accept  a  dinner  at  a  restaurant  from  any  man  who  holds  up 
a  finger  to  me! 

Theodore. 
Why,  my  dear  girl,  you  were  always  bothering  me  to  take 
you  to  the  cook-shops. 


act  in]  MID-CHANNEL  427 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
Bothering!     [Going  to  the  chair  on  the  right  of  the  fire- 
place and  gathering  up  her  scarf. ]     Oh,  you're  too  rude! 

,  Theodore. 

/  was  perfectly  content  with  our  quiet  little  meals  here 
or  in  Egerton  Crescent. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
Yes,  and  to  bore  me  to  tears! 

Theodore. 

Bore ? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Winding  her  scarf  round  her  shoulders.]      Bore,  bore, 
bore! 

Theodore. 
[Scowling.]     Oh,  I — I  bored  you,  did  I? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

Talking  to  me,  as  you  used  to,  like  a  sentimental  young 
fellow  of  five-and-twenty !  Ridiculous!  [Picking  up  her 
gloves.]     I  want  a  taxi-cab. 

Theodore. 
[Rising.]     Stop — stop 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
I've  had  quite  sufficient  of  you  for  to-day. 

Theodore. 
[With  a  set  jaw.]     I've  glad  you've  brought  matters  to  a 
head,  Ally.    I've  something  to  propose  to  you. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Pulling  on  a  glove.]      I've  no  desire  to  hear  it. 


428  MID-CHANNEL  [act  hi 

Theodore. 

Something  that's  been  on  my  mind  for — oh,  a  month  or 
more. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

You  can  keep  it  to  yourself.     I'm  not  accustomed  to  being 
jeered  at. 

Theodore. 

[Slowly  walking  over  to  the  right.}     I'm  sorry  if  I've  hurt 

your  feelings 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

It's  the  first  time  I've  ever  made  advances  to  a  man,  and 
I  assure  you  it'll  be  the  last. 

Theodore. 

Ally 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

[Moving  towards  the  double-door.]     Cole  will  get  me  a 
Taxi. 

Theodore. 
[Authoritatively.]     Come  here;  come  here;  come  here. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

[Halting  behind  the  settee  on  the  left,  with  a  twist  of  her 
body.]     I  shall  not. 

Theodore. 
[Snapping  his  finger  and  thumb.]     Ally — [She  approaches 
him  with  assumed  reluctance.]     Ally — [deliberately]  what '11 
you  take? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Elevating  her  brows.]     Take? 

Theodore. 
To  put  an  end  to  this. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
An  end! 


act  m]  MID-CHANNEL  429 

Theodore. 
To  end  your  boredom — and  mine;  terminate  our — friend- 
ship. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Uncomfortably.]     Oh,  you — you  needn't  cut  up  as  rough 
as  all  this. 

Theodore. 
Ah,  no,  no,  no;  I'm  not  angry.  I'm  in  earnest,  though. 
Come!  What'll  satisfy  you?  [She  curls  her  lip  fretfully.] 
A  man  of  my  years  deserves  to  pay  heavily  at  this  game. 
What'll  make  you  easy  and  comfortable  for  a  bit?  .I'll  be 
liberal  with  you,  my  dear,  and — [offering  his  hand]  shake 
hands — [she  turns  her  shoulder  to  him]  shake  hands — [she 
gives  him  her  hand  sulkily]  and  I — I'll  ask  you  to  forgive 
me 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Withdrawing  her  hand.]     Oh,  for  goodness'  sake,  don't 
let's  have  any  more  of  that.     [Contemptuously.]     You  elder- 
lies  always  wind  up  in  the  same  way. 

[He  seats  himself  at  the  writing-table  and,  unlocking  a 
drawer,  produces  his  cheque-book. 

Theodore. 
Would  a  couple  of  thousand  be  of  any  service  to  you? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Opening  her  eyes  widely.]     A  couple  of ! 

Theodore. 
[Preparing  to  write.]     I  mean  it. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Breathlessly.]       You    don't!       [He    writes.]      Why,    of 
course  it  would.      [Melting  completely.]     Oh,  but  it's  too 
much;  it  is  positively.     I  couldn't.    And  I've  had  such  a  lot 


43o  MID-CHANNEL  [act  hi 

out  of  you  already.  You  arc  generous.  [Behind  his  chair.] 
Fancy  my  being  huffy  with  you  just  now!  [Bending  over 
him  and  arresting  his  pen.~\     Boy  dear 

Theodore. 
Hey? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

[In  a  whisper.]  Make  it — three — will  you?  [He  looks 
at  her  over  his  shoulder  with  a  cynical  smile.  She  retreats.] 
Oh,  well!  One  isn't  young  and  attractive  for  ever,  you 
know. 

[He  finishes  writing  the  cheque  and,  having  locked  up 
his  cheque-book  methodically,  rises  and  comes  to  her. 

Theodore. 
[Giving  her  the  cheque.]     There  you  are. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Examining  it.]  You — you've  split  the  difference!  You 
are  kind.  I  didn't  expect  it  in  the  least.  [Folding  the 
cheque  neatly  and  finding  a  place  for  it  in  her  bosom.]  I 
am  ashamed  of  myself  for  hinting  so  broadly.  Thanks,  a 
hundred  times.     [Blinking  at  him.]     Sha'n't  I  miss  you! 

[Cole  enters  at  the  double-door  followed  by  Peter. 

Cole. 
Mr.  Mottram. 

Theodore. 

[Greeting  Peter  at  the  fireplace  as  Cole  retires.]     Hallo! 

Peter. 
Hallo!     [Bowing  to  Mrs.  Annerly.]     How  d'ye  do? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Who  has  moved  over  to  the  right — distantly.]     How  do 
you  do? 


act  m]  MID-CHANNEL  43 1 

Theodore. 
[To  Mrs.  Annerly.]     By-the-bye,  did  you  say  you  want 
a  taxi-cab? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

If  I*m  not  troubling  you. 

[Theodore  goes  out  at  the  double-door,  closing  it  upon 
Peter  and  Mrs.  Annerly.  There  is  a  pause.  Mrs. 
Annerly,  pulling  on  her  second  glove,  looks  out  of 
the  window;  Peter  whistles  silently. 

Peter. 
[After  a  while.]     Fine  afternoon. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

Delightful.  [After  another  pause,  turning  to  him.]  Er 
— h'm — how  do  you  think  he's  looking? 

Peter. 
Blundell  ?    Seen  him  looking  better. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

[With  a  sigh.]  Ah!  [In  a  mincing  voice,  approaching 
Peter.]  Mr.  Mottram,  will  you  excuse  me  for  offering  a 
suggestion  ? 

Peter. 
[Politely.]      Fire  away. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Sweetly.]     Why  don't  you  use  your  endeavours  to  bring 
Blundell  and  his  wife  together  again? 

Peter. 
[Staring  at  her.]     Eh? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

It  would  be  such  a  good  thing,  wouldn't  it? 


432  MID-CHANNEL  [act  hi 

Peter. 
I  agree  with  you ;  it  would  indeed. 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

I've  done  all  /  can  to  persuade  him.  [Peter's  eyes  open 
ivider  and  wider.  She  busies  herself  daintily  with  her  glove.] 
And  now,  as  he  and  I  are  breaking  off  with  one  another 

Peter. 
[Quickly. 1     I  beg  pardon? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
Perhaps  you'll  take  on  the  job — see  what  you  can  do. 

Peter. 
Breaking-orr ? 


& 


Mrs.  Annerly. 
[Loftily. ,]     Yes;  I  can't  stand  the  annoyance  any  longer. 

Peter. 
Annoyance? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 
People  are  so  spiteful.     It's  shocking — the  ill-natured  con- 
struction they  put  upon  the  most  harmless  little  friendly  acts! 
I  admit   I'm   rather  a  careless  woman — haven't   I  suffered 
from  it! 

Peter. 
[Delicately.]      Then,    do    I    happen — may   I    ask — to   be 
assistin'  at  the  grand  finale ? 

Mrs.  Annerly. 

Certainly — [ivith   sudden    mistrust.]      Don't   you    try   to 
pull  my  leg,  Mr.  Mottram,  please. 

[She  draws  her  skirt  aside  and  passes  him  haughtily  as 
Theodore  returns.     Then  she  goes  out,  followed  by 


act  m]  MID-CHANNEL  433 

Theodore,  who  closes  the  door;  whereupon  Peter 
skips  to  the  piano,  seats  himself  at  it,  and  strikes  up  a 
lively  air.  Presently  Theodore  reappears,  shuts  the 
door  again,  and  resumes  mixing  his  whiskey-and-soda. 

Theodore. 

Ouf !  [Peter  takes  his  hands  from  the  keyboard.]  That's 
over. 

Peter. 
[Innocently.]     Over? 

Theodore. 

You've  seen  the  last  of  that  lady,  as  far  as  I'm  concerned. 
[He  comes  forward,  carrying  his  tumbler,  as  Peter  rises.] 
What  d'ye  think?  [Grinning.]  She's  been  at  me  to  marry 
her. 

Peter. 

[Startled.]     Not  really! 

Theodore. 
To  get  rid  of — present  ties,  and  marry  her. 

Peter. 
When — when  did  she ? 

Theodore. 
Just  now — five  minutes  ago.    [Struck  by  an  odd  expression 
in  Peter's  face.]     Why,  has  she  been  saying  anything ? 

Peter. 
[Soberly.]     No,  no;  not  a  word. 

Theodore. 
Poor  little  devil!  [He  sits  upon  the  settee  on  the  left  and 
drinks.]     Poor — silly — little  devil! 


434  MID-CHANNEL  [act  hi 

Peter. 

[Coming  to  him.]     And  so  you  took  the  opportunity  of 
— er — ?     [Theodore  nods.]     Just  so. 

Theodore. 
Ha!     I  expect  I  shall  hear  from  her  from  time  to  time. 

Peter. 
Till  the  end  o'  your  life.      [Another  nod  from  Theo- 
dore.]    Or  hers.     And  the  nearer  the  end  the  oftener  you'll 
hear. 

Theodore. 

Well,    she    shall    have   a   trifle    whenever    she   wants    it. 
[Looking  at  Peter.]     That's  the  least  we  can  do,  ol'  man. 

Peter. 
Decidedly.     That's  the  least  we  can  do. 

Theodore. 
[Emptying  his  tumbler  and  jumping  up.]     Ugh!     [Plac- 
ing the  glass  upon  the  table  at  the  end  of  the  settee.]      I'll 
burn  some  pastilles  here  later  on.      [Confronting   Peter.] 
Yes,  you  can  have  your  crow ;  you're  entitled  to  it. 

Peter. 
Crow? 

Theodore. 

Your  crow  over  me.    Everything's  turned  out  as  you  pre- 
dicted. 

Peter. 
[Demurely.]     Did  I ? 

Theodore. 

You  know  you  did.     "It's  when  the  sun's  working  round 
to  the  west — "  I  often  recall  your  damned  words 


act  m]  MID-CHANNEL  435 

Peter. 

Ah,  that  day 

Theodore. 

The  day  I  left  Lancaster  Gate.  "It's  when  men  are  where 
we  are  "now — "  you  remember? — "it's  when  men  are  where 
we  are  now  that  they're  most  liable  to  fall  into  mischief." 
[Walking  away.]     God!  the  idiot  I've  made  of  myself! 

[He  goes  to  the  fireplace  and  leans  upon  the  mantelpiece. 

Peter. 
[Quietly.]     Theo— — 

Theodore. 
H'm? 

Peter. 

[Moving  to  the  settee  on  the  left.]  Talkin'  of  Lancaster 
Gate — I've  got  a  bit  o'  noos  for  you.  [Sitting  upon  the 
settee.]  She's  home.  [There  is  no  response  from  Theo- 
dore.]    Zoe  I'm  speakin'  of.     She's  home. 

Theodore. 
[Leaving  the  fireplace.]      Thank'ee;   I  know. 

Peter. 
You  know? 

Theodore. 
I  was  there  on  Monday. 

Peter. 
[Surprised.]      There? 

Theodore. 
Passing  the  house. 

Peter. 
Signs  o'  life  in  the  winders? 


436  MID-CHANNEL  [act  hi 

Theodore. 

[Nodding.]      H'm.      [Coming   forward.]      You've    seen 
her? 

Peter. 
This  mornin'. 

Theodore. 
[Simply.]     I  was  there  again  this  morning. 

Peter. 
Passin'  the  house? 

Theodore. 
[Nodding.]      H'm. 

Peter. 
You  seem  to  take  a  great  deal  of  exercise  in  that  locality. 

Theodore. 
[Forcing  a   laugh.]      Ha,   ha!      [Drearily.]      Well,   one 
had  good  times  there  as  well  as  bad;  and  when  one  views  it 
all  from  a  distance 

Peter. 
The  good  times  stand  out? 

[Without  replying,  Theodore  turns  from  Peter  and 
sits  upon  the  settee  on  the  right. 

Theodore. 
[After  a  pause.]     How — how  did  you  find  her? 

Peter. 
She  ain't  up  to  much. 

Theodore. 

What's; ? 

Peter. 
Chill. 

Theodore. 
Doctor?     [Peter  nods.]     Rashleigh? 


act  in]  MID-CHANNEL  437 

Peter. 
That's  the  feller.     Oh,  it's  nothin'  serious. 

Theodore. 
Chill*?     Ha!     I'll  be  bound  she  caught  it  through  doing 
something  foolish.      [Fidgeting  with   his  hands.}      She  has 
nobody  to  look  after  her — nobody  to  look  after  her. 

Peter. 
Her  maid 

Theodore. 

Lena?  Is  Lena  still  with  her?  [A  nod  from  Peter.] 
I'm  glad  Lena's  still  with  her.  Lena's  fond  of  her.  [Start- 
ing up  and  pacing  the  room.}  Not  that  Lena  can  control 
her;  a  maid  hasn't  any  authority.  [Stopping  before  Peter.] 
She  isn't  very  poorly? 

Peter. 

No,  no.  A  little  pulled  down;  that's  all.  And  as  charmin' 
as  ever.  [Theodore  walks  away  and,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  gazes  out  of  the  window.}  She  ain't  sleepin';  that's 
the  real  bother. 

Theodore. 
Not  sleeping? 

Peter. 

Walks  her  room  half  the  night  and  consooms  too  many 
cigarettes. 

Theodore. 
Why? 

Peter. 

I  can  only  give  you  my  impression 

Theodore. 
[Impatiently.}     Well? 


438  MID-CHANNEL  [act  irt 

Peter. 
My  dear  chap,  d'ye  think  that  she  don't  recollect  the  happy 
times  as  well  as  the  bad  'uns?  Ain't  she  viewin'  it  all  from 
a  distance,  as  you  are;  [rising]  and  don't  the  good  times 
stand  out  in  her  mind  as  they  do  in  yours?  [Approaching 
Theodore.]     Theo 

Theodore. 
H'm? 

Peter. 

I  had  a  long  confab  with  her  this  mornin'. 

Theodore. 

What  about? 

Peter. 

The  possibility  of  a — a  reconciliation. 

[There  is  a  pause  and  then  Theodore  turns  to  Peter. 

Theodore. 

[In  a  husky  voice.}     Ho!    So  that's  what  you're  after,  is 

it? 

Peter. 

Yes;  and  I'm  bent  on  carryin'  it  through. 

Theodore. 
You — you  meddlesome  old  buffer! 

Peter. 
[Chuckling.]     Ha,  ha! 

Theodore. 
How — how  did  she  take  it? 

Peter. 
In  a  way  that  convinced  me  you've  only  to  assure  her 
that  your  old   feelin's  for  her  have  returned,  and   in  spite 
of  everythin' 


act  m]  MID-CHANNEL 

Theodore. 
Everything!     Wait  till  she  hears  of  sweet  Alice. 

Peter. 
Wait! 

Theodore. 
[Looking  at  Peter.]     Why,  d'ye  mean ? 


439 


Peter. 
Oh,  yes;  it's  got  to  her. 

Theodore. 
[Dully.]     Already? 

Peter. 

Jim  Mallandain  travelled  with  her  from  Paris  on  Sunday. 

Theodore. 

Did  he ? 

Peter. 
I  suppose  he  thought  it  'ud  amuse  her. 

Theodore. 
The  skunk! 

Peter. 

If  it  hadn't  been  Jim,  it  'ud  have  been  somebody  else. 

Theodore. 
[Thickly.]     You're  right;  somebody  had  to  be  first. 

Peter. 
However,  I  did  my  best  for  yer. 

Theodore. 
Denied  it? 

Peter. 

Warmly.    I  defended  you  and  the  young  lady  with  all  the 
eloquence  I  could  command. 


440  MID-CHANNEL  [act  hi 

Theodore. 

Zoe  didn't  believe  you?  [A  pause.]  She  didn't  believe 
you?  [Peter  shrugs  his  shoulders.]  Of  course  she  didn't. 
[Passing  Peter  and  walking  about  the  room.]  What  did 
she  say?  Hey?  Oh,  I  can  guess;  you  needn't  tell  me. 
What's  everybody  saying?  Peter,  I'd  give  half  as  much  as 
I'm  worth  to  wipe  the  Annerly  incident  off  my  slate.  I 
would,  on  the  nail.  Just  fancy!  To  reach  my  age — and  to 
be  of  decent  repute — and  then  to  have  your  name  linked  with 
a  brainless,  mercenary  little  trull  like  Alice  Annerly!  Ha, 
ha!  Glorious  fun  for  'em  in  the  City,  and  at  the  club!  You 
hear  it  all.  Confound  you,  can't  you  open  your  mouth! 
Ho!  Of  course  Zoe  sums  it  all  up;  she's  cute  enough  when 
she  chooses.  [Sitting  upon  the  settee  on  the  left  and  mop- 
ping his  face  and  throat  with  his  handkerchief.]  How  did 
it  end? 

Peter. 

End? 

Theodore. 

Your  chat  with  my  missus. 

Peter. 

It  ended  in  my  urgin'  her  to  consider  the  matter — think 
it  over.  [Coming  to  him.]  I'm  dinin'  with  her  next  week. 
[Sitting  in  the  chair  at  the  further  end  of  the  settee.]  If 
you'll  authorize  me  to  open  negotiations  with  her  on  your 

'behalf 

Theodore. 
I — I  approach  her! 

Peter. 
Cert'nly. 

Theodore. 
[Twisting  his  handkerchief  into  a  rope.]      No — no 

Peter. 
Why  not? 


act  m]  MID-CHANNEL  441 

Theodore. 
A  couple  o'  months  back  I  could  have  done  it.  Even  as 
late  as  a  fortnight  ago — before  I'd  given  myself  away  by 
showing  myself  in  public  with  Alice — it  might  have  been 
feasible.*  [Between  his  teeth.]  But  now — when  I — when 
I've  lost  any  remnant  of  claim   I  may  have  had — on  her 

respect ! 

Peter. 

[In    his   judicial   manner.]      My    dear   chap,    here    is    a 

case 

Theodore. 

Hell  with  you  and  your  case!  [Jumping  up  and  walking 
away  to  the  right.]  I  couldn't  screw  myself  up  to  it;  I — 
I  couldn't  humble  myself  to  that  extent.  [Moving  about.] 
Ho!  How  she'd  grin!  She's  got  a  cruel  sense  o'  humour, 
Peter — or  had  once.  You  see,  I  always  posed  to  her  as 
being  a  strong,  rather  cold-blooded  man 

Peter. 
A  favourite  pose,  that,  of  husbands. 

Theodore. 

It  was  more  than  a  pose — I  thought  I  was  a  strong  man. 

And  then — to  crawl  back  to  her — all  over  mud ! 

[He  halts  in  the  middle  of  the  room  and,  with  a  shaky 
hand,  produces  his  cigar-case  from  his  pocket  and  takes 
out  a  cigar. 

Peter. 

I  was  about  to  remark,  when  you  chipped  in  with  your 
usual  politeness — I  was  about  to  remark  that  this  is  a  case 
where  two  persons  have  behaved  more  or  less  stoopidly. 

Theodore. 

Two ? 

Peter. 
You  more,  she  less. 


442  MID-CHANNEL  [act  hi 

Theodore. 
[His  brow  darkening.]     You — you're  referring  to ? 

Peter. 

Er — Mrs.  Zoe 

Theodore. 

[Cutting  his  cigar  viciously.]     With — Ferris. 

Peter. 
Yes;  and  I  think  that  the  friend  of  both  parties — the  in- 
dividual on  whose  shoulders  the  task  of  adjustin'  matters 
would  fall — [rising]  I  think  that  that  friend  might  manage 
to  impose  a  condition  which  'ud  be  greatly  to  your  ad- 
vantage. 

Theodore. 

Condition? 

Peter. 

No  imputations  to  be  made  on  either  side. 

Theodore. 
[Broodingly.]      No — imputations ? 

Peter. 
Each  party  acceptin'  the  statement  of  the  other  party,  and 
promisin'  not  to  rake  up  anythin'  that's  occurred  durin'  the 

past  four  months. 

Theodore. 

I — I  understand. 

Peter. 

It  'ud  help  to  save  your  face  for  the  moment,  and  the 
healin'  hand  of  time  might  be  trusted  to  do  the  rest. 

Theodore. 

[Quietly.]      Peter 

Peter. 
Hallo! 


act  m]  MID-CHANNEL  443 

Theodore. 

When  I  was  at  the  house  on  Monday — my  wife's  house 
— half-past  eleven  in  the  morning 

Peter. 
Well? 

Theodore. 
There  was  a  yellow  car  at  the  door. 

Peter. 
Yaller  car? 

Theodore. 
I  couldn't  get  near,  but — that  fellow  has  a  yellow  car. 

Peter. 
Has  he? 

Theodore. 
[Grimly.]     Why,  he's  driven  you  in  it. 

Peter. 
[Carelessly.]      I'd   forgotten. 

Theodore. 

[Looking  at  Peter.]  He's  still  hanging  on  to  her  skirts, 
hey? 

Peter. 

He's  an  ill-bred,  tactless  cub.  But  he's  got  a  nice  'ead  of 
'air  and  smells  o'  soap;  and  that's  the  sort  women  love  to 
have  danglin'  about  after  'em. 

Theodore. 
[With  an  effort.]     There — there's  nothing  in  it,  Peter, 
beyond  that? 

Peter. 

[Waving  his  hand  disdainfully.]     Good  God! 


444 


MID-CHANNEL  [act  hi 


Theodore. 
Oh,   I  know  there  isn't;  I  know  there  isn't.     With  all 
her  faults,  I  know  she's  as  straight  as  a  die.     [Looking  at 
Peter  again.]     Did  you  touch  on  the  subject  with  her? 

Peter. 
[Nodding.]     I  rubbed  it  in.     I  told  her  her  conduct  had 
been  indiscreet  to  a  degree.     I  thought  it  policy  to  rub  it  in. 

Theodore. 
Did  she — offer  any  explanation? 

Peter. 
[Nodding.]     Pure  thoughtlessness. 

Theodore. 
And  you  felt  that  she  was — speaking  the  truth? 

Peter. 
[Testily.]      My  dear  Theodore 

Theodore. 
You    swear    that?       [Suddenly,    grasping    the    lapel    of 
Peter's  coat.]     Damn  it,  man,  you  began  talking  about  the 

thing ! 

[Cole  enters  at  the  double-door  carrying  a  note  in  the 
shape  of  a  cocked-hat. 

Theodore. 
[Angrily.]     What  d'ye  want? 

Cole. 
I  beg  your  pardon,  sir. 

Theodore. 

[Going  to  him.]      Hey? 

[He  snatches  the  note  from  the  man  and,  as  he  glances 
at  the  writing  on  it,  his  jaw  drops. 


act  m]  MID-CHANNEL  445 

Cole. 
[In  a  low  voice.]     An  answer,  sir. 

Theodore. 
[Trying  to  unfold  the  note.]     Messenger? 

Cole. 
The  lady  herself,  I  think,  sir. 

[There  is  a  pause,  and  then  Theodore  slowly  gets  the 
note  open  and  reads  it. 

Theodore. 
[To  Cole.]     Where ? 

Cole. 
In  the  smoking-room,  sir. 

Theodore. 
Er — wait. 

Cole. 
Yessir. 

[Cole  withdraws. 

Theodore. 

[To  Peter,  who  has  wandered  away.]     Peter 

[Peter  comes  to  him  and  Theodore  hands  him  the 
note.  Peter's  eyes  bolt  as  he  recognizes  the  hand- 
writing. 

Peter. 
[Reading  the  note.]      "Will  you  see  me?"     Short — [ex- 
amining both  sides  of  the  paper  and  then  returning  the  note 
to  Theodore]  sweet. 

Theodore. 
[Chewing  his  unlighted  cigar.]     This  is  your  doing. 


446  MID-CHANNEL  [act  hi 

Peter. 
[Beaming.]     I  flatter  myself  it  must  be.     [Laying  a  hand 
on  Theodore's  shoulder.}     My  dear  Theo,  this  puts  a  noo 
aspect  on  the  affair — clears  the  air. 

Theodore. 

New  aspect ? 

Peter. 
She  makes  the  first  advances,  dear  kind  soul  as  she  is. 
[A  pause.]     Shall  I — fetch  her  in? 

Theodore. 
Hold  hard,  hold  hard ;  don't  be  in  such  a  devil  of  a  hurry. 
[He  leaves  Peter  and  seats  himself  in  a  heap  in  the 
chair  on   the   right   of   the  fireplace.      Peter  moves 
softly  to  the  double-door. 

Peter. 
[His  hand  on  the  door-handle — to  Theodore.]  May  I? 
[Theodore  raises  his  head  and  nods.  Peter  goes  out. 
As  the  door  closes,  Theodore  gets  to  his  feet  and 
flings  his  cigar  into  the  grate.  Then,  hastily,  he  pro- 
ceeds to  put  the  room  in  order,  closing  the  piano  and 
beating  out  and  rearranging  the  pilloivs  on  the  settees. 
Finally,  he  comes  upon  Mrs.  Annerly's  empty 
coffee-cup,  picks  it  up,  and  vanishes  with  it  into  the 
dining-room.  After  a  little  while,  the  double-door 
opens  and  Peter  returns.  He  glances  round  the 
room,  looks  surprised  at  not  finding  Theodore  and, 
with  a  motion  of  the  head,  invites  Zoe  to  enter.  Pres- 
ently she  appears,  beautifully  dressed.  She  also  looks 
round;  and,  passing  Peter,  she  moves  trembling  to 
the  fireplace.    He  closes  the  door  and  joins  her. 

Peter. 
[To  Zoe.]     You're  a  brick  to  do  this. 


act  m]  MID-CHANNEL  447 

Zoe. 
[Almost  inaudibly.]     Am  I? 

Peter. 
You-'ll  never  regret  it. 

Zoe. 

[Clutching  Peter's  arm.]     He  will  be — kind  to  me? 

Peter. 
As  kind  as  you  are  to  him. 

Zoe. 

[Drawing  a  deep  breath.]  Ah!  [She  sits  upon  the  settee 
on  the  right  and  her  eyes  roam  about  the  room.]  What  a 
ripping  flat! 

Peter. 

[Disparagingly.]     Oh,  I  dun'no. 

Zoe. 
[With  a  wry   mouth,  plaintively.]      He  has  been  doing 
himself  jolly  well,  in  all  conscience. 

[The  dining-room  door  opens  and  Theodore  appears. 
He  shuts  the  door  and  edges  towards  Peter  who 
leads  him  to  Zoe. 

Peter. 

My  dear  old  pals 

[Zoe  gets  to  her  feet  and  Theodore  aivkwardly  holds 
out  his  hand  to  her. 

Theodore. 
How  are  you,  Zoe? 

Zoe. 

Fairly — thanks 

[She  hurriedly  produces  her  handkerchief  from  a  gold 
bag  hanging  from  her  wrist  and  moves  away  to  the 
left.      There  she  sits  upon   the  settee,  struggling  to 


448  MID-CHANNEL  [act  hi 

command  herself.  Peter  gives  Theodore's  arm  a 
friendly  grip  and  makes  for  the  double-door.  As  he 
passes  behind  the  settee  on  which  Zoe  is  seated,  he 
stops  to  pat  her  shoulder. 

Zoe. 

[In  a  whisper,  seizing  his  hand.]     Don't  go,  Peter;  don't 

go. 

[He  releases  his  hand,  gives  hers  a  reassuring  squeeze, 
and  goes  to  the  door. 

Peter. 
[At  the  door,  to  Theodore.]     I  shall  be  in  the  City  till 
six. 

[He  departs.     After  a  silence,  Theodore  approaches 
Zoe.     They  carefully  avoid  meeting  each  other's  eyes. 

Theodore. 
It — it's  very  good  of  you,  Zo,  to — to  hunt  me  up. 

Zoe. 
I — I  went  first  to  Copthall  Court.     [Wiping  a  tear  from 
her  cheek. ]     I — I  thought  I  should  find  you  there. 

Theodore. 
I — I  haven't  been  at  all  regular  at  the  office  lately.     [A 
pause.     They  look  about  the  room  in  opposite  directions.] 
Er — Peter  tells  me  he  had  a  little  talk  with  you  this  morning. 

Zoe. 
Y-yes. 

Theodore. 

About  our — being  reconciled. 

Zoe. 
Yes. 


act  m]  MID-CHANNEL  449 

Theodore. 
W-well?  [She  puts  her  handkerchief  away  and  takes 
from  her  bag  a  torn  envelope  ivith  some  inclosures.  She 
gives  it  to  him  timidly  and  he  extracts  from  the  envelope  a 
letter  and  a  key.]  The — the  damned  cruel  letter  I  left  be- 
hind me — that  evening — with  my  latch-key.  [She  inclines 
her  head.]   May  I — destroy  it? 

[She   nods  assent,  and   he   tears   up   the   envelope  and 
letter  and  crams  the  pieces  into  his  trouser-pocket. 

Theodore. 
[Looking  at  the  key.]     The — the  key ? 

Zoe. 
It — it's  yours  again — if  you  like. 

Theodore. 

You — you're     willing ?        [J  gain     she     inclines     her 

head,  and  he  puts  the  key  into  a  pocket  in  his  waistcoat  and 
seats  himself  humbly  in  the  chair  at  the  further  end  of  the 
settee.]     Thank'ee.     [After  a  pause.]     Zo 

Zoe. 
Yes? 

Theodore. 

[Turning  to  her  but  not  lifting  his  eyes.]  Look  here. 
I'm  not  going  to — try  to  deceive  you.  I — I  want  you  to 
understand  exactly  what  you're  offering  to  take  back. 

Zoe. 

Exactly ? 

Theodore. 

I  gather  from*  Peter  that  you  came  over  from  Paris  on 
Sunday  in  the  company  of  Mr.  Jim  Mallandain. 


450  MID-CHANNEL  [act  hi 

ZOE. 

I  picked  him  up  by  chance  at  the  Gare  du  Nord. 

Theodore. 

And  Mr.  Jim  whiled  away  the  journey  by — by  gossiping 
to  you  about  me  and — a  woman  of  the  name  of  Annerly? 

Zoe. 
On  the  boat. 

Theodore. 

Quite  so.     [A  pause.]     When  you  mentioned  the  matter 
to  Peter,  he  produced  the  white-wash  bucket,  didn't  he? 

Zoe. 
Slapped  it  on  thick. 

Theodore. 
[Looking    at    her    from     under    his    brows.]       But    you 

didn't ?     [She  shakes  her  head.]     You're  right;  Peter's 

a  liar.     It's  a  true  bill.     I  wish  it  wasn't ;  but  it  is. 

Zoe. 
[After  a  pause,  steadily.]     Well? 

Theodore. 
[Looking  at  her  again.]     Are  you  prepared  to  forgive  me 
that  too,  then?     [She  nods,  but  with  compressed  lips.     He 
bows  his  head.]      Anyhow,   I'm  easier  for  making  a  clean 
breast  of  it. 

Zoe. 
How — how  did  you — come  to ? 

Theodore. 

Lower  myself  with  this  hussy?     [Looking  up.]      Isn't  it 

all  of  a  piece?     Isn't  it  the  natural  finish  of  the  mistakes  of 

the  last  year  or  so — the  errors  we've  committed  since  we 

began  kicking  each  other's  shins?     [Quickly.]     Oh,  I'm  not 


act  m]  MID-CHANNEL  45 1 

reproaching  you  now  for  your  share  o'  the  transaction.  It 
was  my  job — the  husband's  job — to  be  patient  with  you; 
to  smooth  you  down  gently,  and  to  wait.  But  instead  of 
doing  that,  I  let  my  mind  dwell  on  my  own  grievances ;  with 
the  result  that  latterly  the  one  being  in  the  world  I  envied 
was  the  fellow  who'd  kept  his  liberty,  or  who'd  had  the  pluck 
to  knock  off  the  shackles.  {Rising  and  walking  about,  gath- 
ering his  thoughts  as  he  proceeds.]  Well,  I  got  my  freedom 
at  last,  didn't  I !  And  a  nice  mess  I  made  of  it.  I  started 
by  taking  a  furnished  lodging  in  St.  James's  Street — sky- 
high,  quiet,  peaceful!  Ha!  Hardly  a  fortnight  was  out 
before  I  had  blue-devils  and  was  groaning  to  myself  at  the 
very  state  of  things  I'd  been  longing  for.  Why  should  I  be 
condemned,  I  said  to  myself — why  should  I  be  condemned 
to  an  infernal  dull  life  while  others  round  me  were  enjoying 
themselves  like  fighting-cocks!  And  just  then  this  flat  was 
offered  to  me  as  it  stands;  and  in  less  than  a  month  after  I'd 
slammed  the  front-door  at   Lancaster  Gate  I  was  giving  a 

dinner-party     here — a    house-warming [halting    at     the 

window,  his  back  to  Zoe]  a  dinner-party  to  four-and-twenty 
people,  and  not  all  of  'em  men. 

Zoe. 
[In  a  low  voice.]     I  heard  of  your  setting  up  here  while 
I  Was — in  Florence — [clenching  her  hands]  in  Florence. 

Theodore. 
[Resuming  his  walk.]  However,  so  far  it  was  nothing 
but  folly  on  my  part — egregious  folly.  And  so  it  continued 
till  I — till  I  had  the  honour  of  being  introduced  to  Mrs. 
Annerly  at  a  supper  at  Jack  Ponccrot's.  [Eyeing  Zoe 
askance.]  I  won't  give  you  the  details  of  the  pretty  story; 
your  imagination  '11  supply  those — the  heading  o'  the  chap- 
ters, at  any  rate.  Chapter  One,  Conceit — I  had  the  besotted 
vanity  to  fancy  she — she  liked  me  and  was  genuinely  sympa- 
thetic towards  me ;  [at  the  mantelpiece,  looking  down  into  the 


452  MID-CHANNEL  [act  hi 

grate]  and  so  on  to  Chapter  the  Last — the  chapter  with  the 
inevitable  title — Disgust — Loathing — ! 

Zoe. 

[Thoughtfully.]     You — you're  sure  you've  reached  the — 
*he  final  chapter? 

Theodore. 

[Turning  to  her.]  Heavens,  yes!  [Shaking  himself.] 
It's  all  over.  I've  paid  her  off — to-day,  as  it  happens.  I've 
been  itching  to  do  it;  and  I've  done  it.  [Sitting  upon  the 
settee  on  the  right.]  Another  month  of  her  society,  and  I 
believe  I'd  have  gone  to  the  dogs  completely.  [His  elbows 
on  his  knees,  holding  his  head.]     Zo 

Zoe. 

Eh? 

Theodore. 

Peter  says  you're  walking  your  room  half  the  night  and 
smoking  your  nerves  raw. 

Zoe. 

Does  he?     He  needn't  have  repeated 

Theodore. 
Zo,  I've  been  walking  this  horrible  flat  in  the  same  way. 
/  can't  get  to  bed  till  I  hear  the  rattle  of  the  milk-carts. 
And  I'm  smoking  too  much — and — not  only  that 

Zoe. 
[Looking  at  him  for  the  first  time.]     Not  only  what? 

Theodore. 

Well,  a  man  doesn't  smoke  till  four  or  five  o'clock  in  the 
morning  on  cocoa,  does  he? 

[There  is  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  she  rises  and 
goes  to  him. 


act  m]  MID-CHANNEL  453 

Zoe. 

Oh— Theo ! 

Theodore. 

[Looking  up  at  her.]  So  your  liberty  hasn't  made  you 
over  happy,  either,  has  it,  old  girl? 

Zoe. 
[Faintly.]     No. 

Theodore. 

You've  been  thinking,  too,  of  the  good  times  we've  had 
together,  hey? 

Zoe. 

Y-yes.  [He  rises  and  places  his  hands  upon  her  shoulders 
yearningly  as  if  about  to  draw  her  to  him.  She  shrinks  from 
him  with  a  startled  look.]     Theo 

Theodore. 
[Dropping  his  hands.]     What? 

Zoe. 
[Nervously.]     There — there's  one  thing  I — I  want  to  say 
to  you — before  we — before  we  go  further 

Theodore. 
[Feeling  the  rebuff.]     H'm? 

Zoe. 
As  I've  told  you,  I'm  willing  that  you  should  return  to 
Lancaster  Gate.     You  may  return  as  soon  as  you  please; 

but 

Theodore. 
But? 

Zoe. 

It  must  be — simply  as  a  companion,  Theo;  a  friend. 

Theodore. 
[Stiffly.]     A  friend? 


454  MID-CHANNEL  [act  hi 

ZOE. 

[With  a  slight  shrug.}  Not  that  we've  been  much  else  to 
each  other  these  last  few  years — except  enemies.     Still 

Theodore. 
[Frowning. ,]     You  wish  to  make  it  perfectly  clear. 

ZOE. 

Yes. 

Theodore. 

[After  a  pause,  icily.]  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  was  for- 
getting myself  just  now.  Thanks  for  the  reminder.  [Walk- 
ing away  from  her.]  Oh,  I  know  you  can  feel  only  the  most 
utter  contempt  for  me — wholesale  contempt. 

Zoe. 
[Entreatingly.]     Ah,  no;  don't  take  that  tone. 

Theodore. 
Stand   the  naughty  boy  in  the   corner;  he's  earned   any 
amount  of  humiliation  you  choose  to  inflict. 

Zoe. 
You  shall  never  be  humiliated  by  me,  Theo. 

Theodore. 

[Throwing  himself  upon  the  settee  on  the  left.]  Evi- 
dently ! 

Zoe. 

[Turning  away.]  Oh,  for  God's  sake,  don't  let's  begin 
fighting  again ;  [sitting  on  the  settee  on  the  right]  don't  let's 
do  that. 

Theodore. 

Ha,  ha!  No,  no;  we  won't  squabble.  Right  you  are;  I 
accept  the  terms — any  terms.  [Lying  at  full  length  upon  his 
back  on  the  settee]     As  you  say,  we've  been  little  more  than 


act  m]  MID-CHANNEL  455 

friends  of  late  years — good  friends  or  bad.  [Throiuing  one 
leg  over  the  other.]  It's  your  laying  down  the  law  so  em- 
phatically that  riled  me.  Sorry  I  growled.  [  There  is  silence 
between  them.  She  watches  him  guiltily.  Suddenly  he 
changes  the  position  of  his  legs.]     Zo 

Zoe. 
Yes? 

Theodore. 
[Gazing  at  the  ceiling.]     At  the  same  time,  I'm  blessed  if 
I  wouldn't  rather  you  wanted  to  tear  my  eyes  out  than  that 
you   should    treat   me   in    this   lofty,    condescending   style — 
scratch  my  face  and  tear  my  eyes  out. 

Zoe. 
Well,  I — I  don't,  you  see. 

Theodore. 

[Smiling  unpleasantly.]  Alice  Annerly's  an  extremely 
handsome  creature,  my  dear,  whatever  else  she  may  be. 

Zoe. 
I'm — I'm  sure  of  it. 

Theodore. 

Her  photo's  on  the  top  of  the  piano. 

Zoe. 
[Restraining  an  impulse  to  glance  over  her  shoulder.]     I — 
I'm  not  curious. 

Theodore. 

Ho!  You  mayn't  be  aware  of  the  fact,  but  I've  paid  you 
the  compliment  of  resenting  the  deep  devotion  your  pet 
poodle — Master  Lenny  Ferris — has  been  paying  you  recently. 
You  might  do  me  a  similar  honour.  [Meditatively.]  Master 
— blooming — Lenny!  [Again  there  is  a  pause;  and  then, 
slowly,  he  turns  upon  his  side  so  that  he  may  face  her.]     I 


456  MID-CHANNEL  [act  hi 

say,  that  was  a  pretty  disgraceful  business — your  trapesing 
about  Italy  with  that  fellow.     [Another  pause.]     Hey? 

Zoe. 
[Holding  her  breath.]     It  was — unwise  of  me,  I  own. 

Theodore. 
Unwise!     Peter  and  I  were  discussing  it  when  your  note 
was  brought  in. 

Zoe. 

[Moistening  her  lips.]     Were  you? 

Theodore. 
[Harshly.]  Yes,  we  were.  [Another  pause.]  My  God, 
I  think  it's  /  who  ought  to  dictate  what  our  domestic  ar- 
rangements are  to  be  in  the  future — not  you!  [A  pause. 
With  a  motion  of  the  head,  he  invites  her  to  come  to  him.] 
Zoe — .     [A  pause.]     Don't  you  hear  me! 

[She  hesitates;   then  she  nerves  herself  and  rises  and, 
with  a  light  step,  crosses  the  room. 

Zoe. 
[Resting  her  arms  on  the  back  of  the  chair  at  the  further 
end  of  the  settee  on  which  he  is  lying.]     Still  the  same  dear 
old  bully,  I  notice. 

Theodore. 
Sit  down. 

Zoe. 

Your  gentle  voice  is  quite  audible  where  I  am. 

Theodore. 
[Putting  his  feet  to  the  ground.]     You  sit  down  a  minute. 

Zoe. 

Puh! 

[She  sits  haughtily. 


act  m]  MID-CHANNEL  457 

Theodore. 
Now,  you  look  here,  my  lady;  I  should  like  an  account  of 
that  Italian  affair  from  the  word  go. 

ZOE. 

I'm  not  in  the  mood  to  furnish  it. 

Theodore. 
Perhaps  not ;  but  I'm  in  the  mood  to  receive  it.     [A  pause.] 
When  did  he  join  you? 

Zoe. 

He — he  didn't  join  me;  that's  not  the  way  to  put  it. 

Theodore. 
Put  it  any  way  you  like.    When  was  it? 

Zoe. 
At  the — end  of  February,  I  think. 

Theodore. 
You  think!     [A  pause.}     What  made  him  go  out  to  you? 

Zoe. 
He  knew  I  was  awfully  in  the  dumps 

Theodore. 
Did  he?    How  did  he  know  that? 

Zoe. 
He — guessed  I  must  be. 

Theodore. 
Guessed ! 

Zoe. 

Well,  I'd  seen  him  before  I  went  away.  I  was  dreadfully 
depressed,  Theo — dreadfully  desolee.  I  never  thought  you'd 
bang  out  of  the  house  as  you  did.  I  never  meant,  for  a  single 
moment 


458  MID-CHANNEL  [act  hi 

Theodore. 
Where  were  you  when  he  turned  up? 

Zoe. 
I — I'd  got  to  Florence.     I'd  been  to  Genoa  and  Pisa — I 

was  drifting  about 

Theodore. 
Did  he  dream  you  were  in  Florence? 

Zoe. 

Dream ? 

Theodore. 
He  must  have  dreamt  it. 

Zoe. 

Oh,  I  see  what  you're  driving  at.     He — he'd  had  a  post- 
card from  me 

Theodore. 
A  post-card! 

Zoe. 
[Feebly. ,]      I — I  don't  mean  one — you — you  silly!     I — I 
sent  him  a  picture  from  each  town — so  I  did  to  Peter 

Theodore. 

Why  don't  you   admit   that  you  and   Ferris  were  corre- 
sponding? 

Zoe. 
I — I  am  admitting  it.     It's  nothing  to  admit. 

Theodore. 
Isn't  it?     [A  pause. ]     Well,  he  arrives  in  Florence ? 

Zoe. 
Don't  worry  me  this  afternoon,  Theo— <- 

Theodore. 
How  Ions;  was  he  with  you  in  Florence? 


act  m]  MID-CHANNEL  459 

ZOE. 

I'm  seedy;   I   had   quite   a  temperature  yesterday.     Lena 

called  in  Rashleigh 

t 

Theodore. 

How  long  was  he  with  you  in  Florence? 

Zoe. 
He  wasn't  "with"  me. 

Theodore. 
How  long? 

Zoe. 
A  week — eight  days 

Theodore. 
Same  hotel? 

Zoe. 
No,  no,  no! 

Theodore. 

And  afterwards ? 

Zoe. 

I  wanted  to  do  a  little  tour  of  the  quiet  old  places — 

Perugia — Siena 

Theodore. 


So 

did 

he, 

hey? 

Zoe. 

He 

tacked 

on.     I 

saw 

no  harm  in 

it 

at 

the 

time. 

At  the 
Nor  do 

time! 
I  now. 

Theodore. 
Zoe. 

Theodore. 

It  was  coming  from  Perugia  you  fell  up  against  Lowen- 
stein. 


460  MID-CHANNEL  [act  in 

ZOE. 

If  you  were  a  man  you'd  thrash  that  beast. 

Theodore. 
Lowenstein  had  the  room  at  the  hotel  there — the  Brufani 
— that  Ferris  had  had. 

Zoe. 
[Protestingly.]      Ah ! 

Theodore. 
In  the  same  corridor  as  yours  was. 

Zoe. 
It  was  stupid — stupid — stupid  of  Lenny  to  let  them  carry 
his  bag  up  to  the  Brufani.     It  was  all  done  before — before 

it  dawned  on  him 

Theodore. 

Where  were  you  moving  on  to  when  Lowenstein  met  you 
at  Arezzo?     [A  pause.]     Hey? 

Zoe. 

[Passing  her  hand  across  her  brow,  weakly.]  Let  me  off 
to-day,  Theo;  my  head's  going  like  a  clock.  [Getting  to  her 
feet.]  Take  it  up  again  another  time.  [She  goes  to  the 
settee  on  the  right  and  picks  up  her  bag  which  she  has  left 
there.  He  rises  and  follows  her,  so  that  when  she  turns  they 
come  face  to  face.  She  steadies  herself.]  Well,  you  turn  it 
over  in  your  mind  about  coming  back  to  me.  I  don't  want 
to  put  pressure  on  you;  only  I — I  understood  from  Peter 
you  were  feeling  kindly  towards  me  again. 

Theodore. 
[Quietly.]     When  did  you  see  Ferris  last? 

Zoe. 
Oh,  drop  Ferris. 


act  m]  MID-CHANNEL  461 

Theodore. 
When? 

ZOE. 

Oh — over  two  months  ago — at  the  end  of  the  little  jaunt. 

Theodore. 
Not  since?      [She  looks  at  him  vacantly  and  shakes  her 
head.]     That's  a  lie.     He  was  with  you  on  Monday  morning 
at  half-past  eleven.     D'ye  deny  it? 

Zoe. 
You — you're  so  jealous,  one — one's  afraid 

Theodore. 
[With  sudden,  fierce  earnestness.]     Zoe 


Zoe. 
[Helplessly.]     I'm  not  going  to  remain  here  to  be- 


Theodore. 

Give  me  your  word  nothing  wrong's  occurred  between  you 

and  Ferris.     [A  pause.]      I  don't  ask  for  your  oath;  I'll  be 

satisfied  with  your  word.     [A  pause.]     Give  me  jour  word. 

[She  sits  upon  the  settee,  her  hands  lying  in  her  lap. 

Zoe. 

[Staring  at  him.]     Theo — I've  forgiven  you;  forgive  me. 
[There  is  a  silence  and  then,  dumhfoundered,  he  moves 
to  the  chair  at  the  further  end  of  the  settee  on  the  left 
and  sits  there. 

Theodore. 
[After  a  while.]     Florence? 

Zoe. 

No.     Perugia — Siena — [Brokenly.]      It  was  in   Florence 
I  first  lost  my  senses.     I'd  been  pitying  you,  hating  myself 


462  MID-CHANNEL  [act  iii 

for  the  way  I'd  served  you,  and  had  been  trying  to  concoct 
a  letter  to  you.  And  then  one  arrived  from  him,  telling  me 
you'd  taken  this  big  flat  and  were  having  a  splendid  time. 
It  made  me  furious ;  and  when  he  came  through  to  me,  I  was 
half  beside  myself.  And  then  he  planned  out  the  little  tour, 
and  I  said  Yes  to  it.  [Wringing  her  hands.]  Why!  Why 
did  I  fall  in  with  it!     I  shall  never  know  why — except  that 

I    was    mad — blind    mad !       [Leaning    back,    her    eyes 

closed.]     Get  me  a  drop  o'  water. 

[He  rouses  himself  and  goes  to  the  table  on  the  left  of 
the  fireplace  and  half-fills  a  tumbler  with  soda-water. 
Then  he  brings  her  the  tumbler  and  holds  it  out  to 
her. 

Theodore. 

Here 

Zoe. 

[Opening  her  eyes  and  looking  up  at  him  beseechingly.] 
Be — merciful  to  me. 

Theodore. 
[Peremptorily.]     Take  it. 

Zoe. 

[Barely  touching  the  glass.]  Don't — don't  be  hard  on  me, 
old  man. 

[He  thrusts  the  tumbler  into  her  hand  and  she  drinks. 

Theodore. 

[Heavily.]  I — I  must  have  some  advice  about  this — 
some  advice. 

Zoe. 

Advice?  [He  goes  to  the  writing-table,  sits  there,  and 
places  the  telephone-receiver  to  his  ear.]  You — you  won't  do 
anything  to  disgrace  me  publicly,  will  you,  Theo?  [He  taps 
the  arm  of  the  instrument  impatiently.]  You  won't  do  any- 
thing spiteful?  [He  rings  again.]  You  and  I  are  both 
sinners,  Theo;  we've  both  gone  a  mucker. 


act  m]  MID-CHANNEL  463 

Theodore. 
{Speaking  into  the  telephone]      London  Wall,  one,  throe, 
double  five,  eight. 

Zoe. 

That's  Peter.  He  won't  advise  you  to  do  anything  spite- 
ful. [She  rises  painfully,  puts  the  tumbler  on  the  top  of  the 
piano,  and  ivalks  about  the  room.]  What  can  you  do?  You 
can  do  nothing  to  hurt  me ;  nor  I  you.     We're  both  sinners. 

Theodore. 
[Into    the    telephone.]       Hallo!  .   .  .  Arc    you    Blundell, 
Slade   and   Mottram?  ...  Is  that   Mr.   Ewart?  .  .  .   Mr. 
Blundell.  .  .  .  Mr.  Mottram  not  back  yet,  I  suppose?  .  .  . 

Zoe. 
[In  a  murmur.]     Both — both  gone  a  mucker. 

Theodore. 
[Into  the  telephone.]    .  .  .  When  he  comes  in,  tell  him  I 
want   to   see   him   at   once.  .  .  .  Cavendish    Square  ...  at 
once.  .  .  .    [Replacing  the  receiver.]     Good-bye. 

Zoe. 

[On  the  left.]  Peter — Peter  won't  let  you — be  too  rough 
on  me. 

Theodore. 

[Leaning  his  head  on  his  hands.]  Ho,  ho!  An  eye-opener 
for  Peter!  But  he's  been  a  first-rate  prophet  all  the  same. 
[In  a  muffled  voice.]  Yes,  Peter's  been  right  all  along  the 
line,  with  his  precious  mid-Channel! 

Zoe. 

[Looking  at  him  and  speaking  in  lore,  measured  tones.] 

Theo [He  makes  no  response.]     'Hieo [Coming 

to  him  slowly.]      I — I  was  thinking  it  over — beating  it  all 


464  MID-CHANNEL  [act  hi 

out — driving  into  the  City  and  back  again.     Our  marriage 
was  doomed  long,  long  before  we  reached  mid-Channel. 

Theodore. 
[Absently,  not  stirring.]     Oh? 

Zoe. 
It  was  doomed  nearly  fourteen  years  ago. 

Theodore. 

[As  before.]     Oh? 

Zoe. 
From  the  very  beginning. 

Theodore. 
[Raising  his  head.]     What  d'ye ? 

Zoe. 
It  was  doomed  from  the  moment  we  agreed  that  we'd 
never  be  encumbered  in  our  career  with  any — brats  of  chil- 
dren. [He  partly  turns  in  his  chair,  to  listen  to  her.]  I 
want  you  to  remember  that  bargain,  in  judging  me;  and  I 
want  you  to  tell  Peter  of  it. 

Theodore. 
Yes,  it  suits  you  to  rake  that  up  now 

Zoe. 
[Pressing  her  fingers  to  her  temples.]  If  there  had  been 
"brats  of  children"  at  home,  it  would  have  made  a  different 
woman  of  me,  Theo;  such  a  different  woman  of  me — and  a 
different  man  of  you.  But,  no;  everything  in  the  earlier 
years  of  our  marriage  was  sacrificed  to  coining  money — to 
shoving  our  way  through  the  crowd — to  "getting  on";  every- 
thing was  sacrificed  to  that. 

Theodore. 
[Angrily.]     Oh ! 


act  m]  MID-CHANNEL  465 

Zoe. 
And  then,  when  we  had  succeeded — when  we  had  got 
on — we  had  commenced  to  draw  apart  from  each  other ;  and 
there  was  the  great,  showy,  empty  house  at  Lancaster  Gate 
for  me  to  fret  and  pine  in.  [He  waves  his  arms  scornfully.] 
Oh,  yes,  we  were  happy  in  those  climbing  days — greedily, 
feverishly  happy;  but  we  didn't  look  to  the  time  when  we 
should  need  another  interest  in  life  to  bind  us  together — the 
time  when  we'd  got  on  in  years  as  well  as  in  position. 
[Theodore  starts  up.]  Ah,  Theo,  I  believe  we  should  have 
crossed  that  Ridge  safely  enough  [laying  her  hands  upon  his 
breast]   but  for  our  cursed,  cursed  selfishness ! 

Theodore. 
[Shaking  himself  free.]  Well,  there's  not  the  slightest 
use  in  talking  about  what  might,  or  might  not,  have  been. 
[Passing  her  and  pacing  the  room.]  One  thing  is  absolutely 
certain — it's  impossible  for  us  ever  to  live  under  the  same 
roof  again  under  any  conditions.  That's  out  o'  the  question; 
I  couldn't  stoop  to  that. 

Zoe. 

[Leaning   against   the   chair  at   the   writing-table.]      No, 
you  draw  the  line  at  stooping  to  Mrs.  Annerly. 

Theodore. 
Oh,  don't  keep  on  harping  on  that  string.     The  cases  are 
as  far  apart  as  the  poles. 

Zoe. 
[Faintly.]     Ha,  ha! 

Theodore. 
[Halting  in  the  middle  of  the  room  and  drumming  upon 
his  brow  with  his  fingers.]  Of  course,  we  can  make  our 
separation  a  legal  one;  but  that  wouldn't  give  us  release. 
And  as  long  as  we're  tied  to  one  another — [abruptly,  looking 
at  her.]     Zoe 


466  MID-CHANNEL  [act  hi 

ZOE. 

[Meekly.]     Eh? 

Theodore. 

If  I  allowed  you  to  divorce  me — made  it  easy  for  you — 
would  Ferris — would  that  scoundrel  marry  you  ? 

Zoe. 
[Turning  to  him,  blankly. \     M-marry  me? 

Theodore. 
Because — if   it    'ud   save   you   from   going   utterly   to   the 

bad 

Zoe. 

[Advancing   a   step    or    two.]      No,    no;    I    wouldn't — I 
wouldn't  marry  Lenny. 

Theodore. 
[After  a  moment's  pause,  sharply.]     You  wouldn't? 

Zoe. 

No — no 

Theodore. 

[Coming  close  to  her.]  Why  not?  [She  shrugs  her 
shoulders  confusedly.]      Why  not? 

[She  wavers,  then  grasps  his  arm.    Again  he  shakes  her 

off. 

Zoe. 

[Appealingly.]  Oh,  Theo,  stick  to  me.  Don't  throw  me 
over.    Wait — wait  for  Peter.    Theo,  I've  never  ceased  to  be 

fond  of  you 

Theodore. 
Faugh ! 

Zoe. 

Not  at  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  No,  nor  you  of  me ;  there's 
the  tragedy  of  it.  Peter  says  the  same.  [Seizing  his  hand.] 
Take  time ;  don't  decide  to-day 


act  m]  MID-CHANNEL  467 

Theodore. 

[Freeing  his  hand  and  looking  at  her  piercingly.]      When 
did  you  see  him  last? 

Zoe. 
H-him? 

Theodore. 
Ferris. 

Zoe. 
This — this  morning. 

Theodore. 
This  morning! 

Zoe. 
I — I  confess — this  morning.     I — I  sent  him  away. 

Theodore. 

» 

Sent  him — away? 

Zoe. 
[Nodding.]      Yes — yes 

Theodore. 

[Slowly.]     And  so  you  rush  off  to  me — straight  from  the 
young  gentleman 

Zoe. 
W-well? 

Theodore. 

[Suddenly.]     Why,  damn  you,  you've  quarrelled! 

Zoe. 

No 

Theodore. 

He's  chucked  you ! 

Zoe. 

No 

Theodore. 
Had  enough  of  you! 


468  MID-CHANNEL  [act  hi 

Zoe. 
[Her  eyes  blazing.]     That's  not  true! 

Theodore. 
Ho,  ho!    You  bring  me  his  cast-off  trash,  do  you ! 

Zoe. 
It's  a  lie! 

Theodore. 
Mr.  Lenny  Ferris's  leavings! 

Zoe. 
It's  a  lie !     He'd  give  his  soul  to  make  me  his  wife. 

Theodore. 
Will  he  tell  me  that? 

Zoe. 
Tell  you ! 

Theodore. 

{Between  his  teeth.]     If  he  doesn't,  I'll  break  every  bone 
in  his  carcase. 

Zoe. 

[Throwing  her  head  up  defiantly.]      Of  course  he'd  tell 
you. 

Theodore. 

{Walking  away  to  the  fireplace.]     He  shall  have  a  chance 
of  doing  it. 

Zoe. 
[Making  for  the  door,  wildly.]     The  sooner  the  better! 

Theodore. 
[Looking  at  his  ivatch.]     If  Pete:'  were  here 


act  m]  MID-CHANNET  469 

ZOE. 
[Behind  the  settee  on   the  left,  turning   to  THEODORE.] 
Mind!     I've  your  bond!     If  Lenny  promises  to  marry  me, 
you'll  let  me  free  myself  from  you? 

Theodore. 
I've  said  so. 

Zoe. 

[Missing  her  bag,  which  is  again  lying  upon  the  settee  on 

the  left,  and  pointing  to  it.]      Please 

[He  picks  up  the  bag,  and  is  about  to  take  it  to  her, 
when  he  remembers  that  he  has  the  latch-key  in  his 
pocket.  He  produces  the  key  and  drops  it  into  the 
bag. 

Theodore. 

[As  he  does  so.]     You'll  want  this  for  your  new  husband. 

Zoe. 
Thank  God,  I've  done  with  the  old  one!     [He  tosses  the 
bag  to  her  in  a  fury  and  she  catches  it.]     Ha,  ha!     [At  the 
door.]     Ta,  ta!  [She  disappears. 

Theodore. 

[Flourishing  his  hands.]     Oh ! 

[Going  to  the  piano,  he  takes  the  decanter  of  brandy  and 
a  glass,  from  the  tray  and  fills  the  glass  to  the  brim. 


END  OF  THE  THIRD  ACT 


^^ 


THE  FOURTH  ACT 

i 

The  scene  is  a  pretty,  irregularly-shaped  room,  simply  but 
tastefully  furnished.  At  the  back,  facing  the  spectator, 
are  two  double-windows  opening  to  the  floor.  These 
zuindows  give  on  to  a  balcony  which  appears  to  continue 
its  course  outside  the  adjoining  rooms  both  on  the  right 
and  left.  Beyond  the  balcony  there  is  an  open  space  and, 
in  the  distance,  a  view  of  the  upper  part  of  the  Albert 
Hall  and  of  other  lofty  buildings.  On  the  left  is  the 
fireplace — its  grate  empty,  save  for  a  few  pots  of  flowers 
— and,  nearer  the  spectator,  there  is  a  door  opening  from 
a  corridor.  Opposite  this  door  is  a  door  of  like  dimen- 
sions, admitting  to  a  bedroom. 

One  either  side  of  the  fireplace  and  of  the  left-hand 
window  there  is  an  arm-chair;  facing  the  fireplace  there 
is  a  settee;  and  at  the  back  of  the  settee  are  a  small 
writing-table  and  writing-chair.  A  leathern  tub  for 
waste-paper  stands  beside  the  writing-table. 

On  the  right  of  the  room  is  a  round  table  upon  which 
tea  is  laid  for  three  persons.  Two  chairs — one  on  the 
left,  another  at  the  further  side — and  a  settee  on  the 
right  are  drawn  up  close  to  this  table.  Elsewhere  are  a 
book-case,  a  smoking-cabinet,  and  some  odds  and  ends 
of  furniture — the  whole  being  characteristic  of  a  room 
in  a  STnall  flat  occupied  by  a  well-to-do,  but  not  wealthy, 
young  man. 

Both  the  windows  are  open,  and  the  glare  of  the  after- 
noon sun  is  on  the  balcony  and  the  opposite  buildings. 

[Mrs.  Pierpoint,  Ethel,  and  Leonard — the  ladies  in 
their  hats  and  gaily  dressed — are  seated  at  the  round 
table. 

47 1 


472  MID-CHANNEL  [act  iv 

Leonard. 

[In  the  chair  on  the  left  of  the  table — handing  a  dish  of 
cakes  to  Mrs.  Pierpoint.]     Do  try  one  of  these  little  cakes. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[In  the  chair  at  the  further  side  of  the  table.]     I  couldn't. 

Leonard. 
I  bought  them  and  carried  'em  home  myself. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
You  really  must  excuse  me. 

Leonard. 

[Pushing  the  dish  towards  Ethel,  who  is  on  the  settee 
facing  him.]     Buck  up,  Ethel. 

Ethel. 
Good-bye  to  my  dinner,  then.     [Taking  a  cake  and  biting 
it  as  she  speaks.]     May  I,  mother? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[Cheerfully.]      Now,   isn't   that  the  modern   young  lady 
exactly!     May  I,  mother!    And  the  cake  is  half  eaten  before 
the  poor  mother  can  even  nod  her  head. 

Ethel. 
[Laughing.]     Ha,  ha! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
May  I  go  out  for  a  walk,  mother;  and  the  front  door 
bangs  on  the  very  words!     May  I  do  this;  may  I  do  that! 
And  a  nice  life  the  mother  leads  if  she  dares  to  say  No. 


act  iv]  MID-CHANNEL  473 

Ethel. 

This  sounds  suspiciously  like  a  sermon.  [To  Leonard.] 
Lenny,  git  up  straight  and  be  preached  to.  [Pushing  her 
cup  to  Mrs.  Pierpoint  who  has  the  tea-tray  before  her.] 
Another  cup  of  tea,  your  reverence. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Ethel!     How — how  irreligious!     [Pouring  out  tea.]     Ah, 
but  it's  true,  every  syllable  of  it.    And  in  nothing  is  this  spirit 
of — what  shall  I  describe  it  as? 

Ethel. 
Go-as-you-pleasedness. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[Giving    Ethel    her    tea.]      In    nothing    is    this    wilful, 
thoughtless  spirit  more  plainly  shown  than  in  the  way  love- 
affairs  are  conducted  at  the  present  day. 

Ethel. 
[Whistling  slyly.]      Phew! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[To  Leonard.]     More  tea,  Leonard? 

Leonard. 
No,  thanks. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[Resignedly.]     I  suppose  I  must  call  you  Leonard  now? 

Ethel. 
[Into  her  tea-cup.]     What's  the  matter  with  "Lenny"? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

I  may  be  wrong,  but  I  don't  think  that  it  was  the  fashion 
in  my  youth  for  a  young  lady  suddenly  to  appear  before  her 


474  MID-CHANNEL  [act  iv 

mother  and  to  say,  without  a  note  of  warning,  "Mr.  So- 
and-so  is  in  the  drawing-room  and  we  wish  to  be  engaged." 
Take  the  case  of  Ethel's  papa — there's  a  case  in  point 

Leonard. 
I  certainly  intended  to  speak  to  you  first,  Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

Ethel. 
[To  Leonard.]    You  fibber! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Ethel! 

Leonard. 

Well,  I — what  I  mean  is 

Ethel. 

If  you  had  done  so,  I'd  never  have  looked  at  you  again. 
Surely,  if  there  is  one  thing  which  is  a  girl's  own  particula* 
business,  it  is  settling  preliminaries  with  her  best  young  man, 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
My  dear! 

Ethel. 
[Jumping  up.]     Anyhow,  mother,  if  you  wanted  to  play 
the  dragon,  you  shouldn't  have  been  upstairs,  sleeping  off  the 
effects  of  an  exceedingly  heavy  lunch,  when  Lenny  arrived 
this  afternoon. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Fiddle,  heavy  lunch !    A  morsel  of  minced  chicken ! 

Ethel. 
Ha,    ha!      [Bending   over   Mrs.    Pierpoint.]      And    you 
don't  mind,  do  you — not  actually [kissing  Mrs.  Pier- 
point] as  long  as ? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
As  long  as  what? 


act  iv]  MID-CHANNEL  475 

Ethel. 
As  long  as — Lenny's  contented? 

•  Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

[Shaking  herself. ,]     Oh,  go  away. 

[Laughing,  Ethel  wanders  about  inspecting  the  various 
objects  in  the  room. 

Leonard. 
[To  Mrs.  Pierpoint,  producing  his  cigarette-case.]     Do 
you  object? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

Not  in  the  least.    Ethel's  papa  used  to  indulge,  in  modera- 
tion. 

Leonard. 

[To  Ethel,  over  his  shoulder.]     Cigarette,  Ethel? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Ethel,  I  forbid  it. 

Ethel. 

[Putting   on   her  gloves.]      I   would,   but   it   makes   me 
swimmy. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

[To  Ethel.]     How  do  you  know? 

Ethel. 
I've  smoked  with  Zoe  Blundell. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
This  is  news  to  me. 

Ethel. 
Zoe  smokes  like  a  chimney. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[To  Leonard.]     By-the-bye,  she's  in  London  again. 


476  MID-CHANNEL  [act  iv 

Leonard. 

[Uncomfortably.]     Yes — yes. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Ethel  called  on  her  this  morning  at  Lancaster  Gate. 

Leonard. 
Did  she? 

Ethel. 

[To  Leonard.]     I  told  you,  Len. 

Leonard. 
Ah,  yes. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

[To  Leonard.]     Have  you  seen  her?    I  presume  not. 

Leonard. 
Er — for  a  few  minutes.     I  was  in  the  neighbourhood  on 
— on  Monday,  and  I  noticed  the  blinds  were  up,  and  I — I 
just  rang  the  bell  to — to  inquire. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[Elevating  her  eyebrows.]      She  received  you? 

Leonard. 
She — she  happened  to  be  in  the  hall. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

I  was  going  to  say — a  woman   in  her  peculiar  position 

ought  hardly 

Leonard. 
No,  of  course. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

Looks  ill,  I  understand? 

Ethel. 
Frightfully. 


act  iv]  MID-CHANNEL  477 

Leonard. 
Does  she? 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

I  am .  afraid — I  am  very  much  afraid — that  dear  Mrs. 
Blundell  was  not  entirely  free  from  blame  in  her  treatment 
of  that  big  rough  husband  of  hers. 

Ethel. 

[At  the  left-hand  window.]     Rubbish,  mother! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Ethel,  you  are  too  disrespectful. 

Ethel. 
Sorry. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

At  the  same  time,  she  is  an  exceedingly  attractive  person 
— a  trifle  vulgar,  poor  soul,  occasionally 

Ethel. 
[Hotly.]     Mother! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

[To  Leonard.]  But  good-natured  people  frequently  are 
vulgar — aren't  they? 

Ethel. 
[Going  on  to  the  balcony.]     Oh ! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

[To  Leonard.]  You  were  quite  a  friend  of  hers  before 
the  sad  split,  weren't  you — quite  a  friend  ? 

Leonard. 
Yes,  I — I  always  found  her  a  very  decent  sort. 

Ethel. 
[Her   hands    upon    the   rail    of    the    balustrade,    calling.] 
Mother,  do  come  and  look  at  the  tiny  men  and  women. 


478  MID-CHANNEL  [act  iv 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

Men  and  women ?     [Mrs.  Pierpoint  rises  and  goes 

to  the  window,  whereupon  Leonard  jumps  up  as  if  relieved 
by  the  interruption.]     You're  soiling  your  gloves,  Ethel. 

Ethel. 
Look  down  there.     What  tots! 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[Drawing   back    from    the    window.]      Oh,    my    dear,    I 

can't 

Ethel. 
Do,  mother. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

You  know  I  don't  care  for  heights. 

Ethel. 

I'll  steady  you.  [Mrs.  Pierpoint  timidly  ventures  on 
to  the  balcony.  Ethel  takes  her  arm.]  There's  been  a  con- 
cert— or  a  meeting.      [Calling.]     Lenny 

[Leonard  has  walked  away  to  the  writing-table 
gloomily.  He  is  about  to  join  the  ladies  on  the  balcony 
when  the  door  on  the  left  opens  and  RlDEOUT,  his 
servant,  appears. 

Leonard. 
[To  Rideout.]     Eh? 

[After  glancing  discreetly  in  the  direction  of  the  ladies 
on  the  balcony,  RlDEOUT  produces  a  visiting-card  from 
behind  his  back.  Leonard  goes  to  him  and  takes  the 
card,  and  looks  at  it  in  astonishment. 

RlDEOUT. 

[Quietly.]     There's  some  writing  on  it,  sir. 

Leonard. 
I  see.     [In  a  low  voice.]     Where  is  she? 


act  iv]  MID-CHANNEL  479 

RlDEOUT. 

In  my  room,  sir.     I  said  you  were  engaged. 

Leonard. 
[Uneasily.]     You  didn't  tell  her  who's  here. 

RlDEOUT. 

No,  sir;  merely  some  friends  to  tea. 

Leonard. 

All  right.     I  sha'n't  be  very  long.      [RlDEOUT  is  going.] 
Tss— ! 

RlDEOUT. 

[Stopping.]     Yessir? 

Leonard. 
Keep  your  door  shut. 

RlDEOUT. 

Yessir. 

[Rideout  withdraws.  Leonard  crams  the  card  into  his 
waistcoat-pocket  and  is  again  about  to  join  the  ladies 
when  Mrs.  Pierpoint  comes  back  into  the  room. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

[To  Leonard.]  Thank  you  for  showing  us  your  charm- 
ing little  nest.    Quite — quite  delightful! 

Leonard. 

{Standing  by  the  round  table.]  Oh,  for  bachelor 
quarters 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

[In  the  middle  of  the  room.]  There!  I  declare  I  often 
wonder  what  there  is  to  tempt  a  bachelor  to  marry  in  these 
days. 

Leonard. 

You're  not  a  bachelor,  Mrs.  Pierpoint. 


480  MID-CHANNEL  [act  iv 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

No;  that's  true.  That's  perfectly  true.  But  I've  a  dis- 
tinct remembrance  of  the  rooms  Ethel's  papa  lived  in  when 
he  was  a  bachelor.  [Ethel  returns  and  goes  to  the  fire- 
place.] They  were  in  Keppel  Street,  and  vastly  different 
from  these.  [Turning  to  Ethel.]  Have  I  ever  told  you 
that  poor  papa  lived  in  Keppel  Street? 

Ethel. 
[Demurely.]     Yes,  mother. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[To  Ethel.]     And  now,  my  dear,  as  we  have  to  dine  at 
half-past    seven — [to    Leonard]    what    time    does    Louise 

begin  ? ■ 

Leonard. 

Oh,  if  we  get  there  at  nine 


Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
So  kind  of  you  to  take  us — and  as  Ethel  must  lie  down 
on  her  bed   for  an  hour  if  we  want  her  to  look  her  best 
—  [pointing    to    the    tea-table]     may    I    trouble    you — my 

fan? " 

[Leonard  searches  for  Mrs.  Pierpoint's  fan  among 
the  tea-things. 

Ethel. 

[Kneeling  upon  the  settee  on  the  left,  her  elbows  on  the 
back  of  it,  gazing  into  space.]      Mother 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Eh?     [Receiving  her  fan  from  Leonard.]     Thank  you. 

Ethel. 
[Sloivly.]     Mother — this  is  going  to  be  an  awfully  happy 
night. 


act  iv]  MID-CHANNEL  481 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
I'm  sure  I  hope  so,  my  darling.     It  won't  be  my  fault  If 
it  isn't — [tapping  Leonard's  shoulder  with  her  fan]    nor 
Leonard's. 

Ethel. 
Ah,  no;  I  mean  the  night  of  one's  life  perhaps. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Oh,  I  trust  we  shall  have  many,  many 

Leonard. 
Rather ! 

Ethel. 
[Raising  herself  and  gripping  the  back  of  the  settee.]     No, 
no;  you  don't  understand,  you  gabies.     In  everybody's  life 
there's  one  especial  moment 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Moment  ? 

Ethel. 
Hour — day — night;  when  all  the  world  seems  yours — as 
if  it  had  been  made  for  you,  and  when  you  can't  help  pitying 
other  people — they  seem  so  ordinary  and  insignificant.    Well, 
I  believe  this  is  to  be  my  evening. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
One  would  imagine  /  had  never  given  you  any  pleasure, 
to  hear  you  talk. 

Ethel. 
[Rising.]      I  say,  mother,  don't  make  me  lie  down,  and 
lose  consciousness,  when  I  get  home.     [Going  to  Mrs.  Pier- 
point with  extended  arms.]      Ah,  ha!     You  duck — ! 

[In  advancing  to  Mrs.  Pierpoint,  Ethel  knocks  over 
the  waste-paper  tub  with  her  skirt  and  its  contents 
are  scattered  on  the  floor* 


482  MID-CHANNEL  [act  iv 

Ethel. 

[Going   down    on    her    knees   and   replacing    the    litter.} 
Sorry. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

[To  Ethel.]     You'll  crease  your  skirt,  Ethel. 

Leonard. 
[Going  to  Ethel.]     Never  mind  that. 

Ethel. 

Oh,  but  if  I  do  anything  clumsy  at  home — !  [coming 
upon  some  fragments  of  a  photograph.]  Oh — !  [trying  to 
fit  the  pieces  together  J]     Zoe! 

Leonard. 

Yes,  I— I 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 

[Who  has  moved  to  the  fireplace.}  Pray  get  off  the  floor, 
child. 

Ethel. 
[Finding   more  pieces.]      Why,    you've  been   tearing   up 
Zoe's  photos. 

Leonard. 
They're  old  things. 

Ethel. 

That  they're  not.  This  one  isn't,  at  all  events.  [Examin- 
ing one  of  the  scraps  closely.]     " — Firenze." 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
Ethel,  we  must  be  going. 

Leonard. 

[Almost  roughly.]     Leave  them  alone,  Ethel. 

[A  little  startled  by  his  tone,  she  drops  the  pieces  into 
the  basket  and  he  assists  her  to  rise. 


act  iv]  MID-CHANNEL  483 

Mrs.  Pierpoint. 
[Opening  the  door  on  the  left.]      Come  along  at  once, 
I  insist. 

[Mrs.  Pierpoint  goes  out.  Ethel  is  following  her 
mother  when  she  turns  to  Leonard  who  is  behind 
her. 

Ethel. 

[To  Leonard,  with  a  smile.]     Sorry  I  contradicted  you. 

[They  kiss  hurriedly  and  Ethel  runs  after  her  mother. 

Leonard  follows  and  closes  the  door.    After  a  Utile 

while,  the  door  is  reopened,  and  Rideout  enters  with 

Zoe.    Zoe  is  dressed  as  when  last  seen. 

Rideout. 
[To  Zoe,  as  she  passes  him.]     Mr.  Ferris  has  gone  to  the 
lift,  ma'am.     He  won't  be  a  minute. 

Zoe. 
[Going  to  the  left-hand  window,  languidly.]     All  right. 

Rideout. 
[At  the  round  table,  putting  the  tea-things  together  upon 
the  tray.]     Shall  I  make  you  some  tea,  ma'am? 

Zoe. 

[Looking  out  of  the  window,  speaking  in  a  dull  voice.] 
No;  I've  had  tea,  in  a  tea-shop.     [Turning.]     Rideout 

Rideout. 
Yes,  ma'am? 

Zoe. 

I  should  like  to  tidy  myself,  if  I  may;  I've  been  walking 
about. 

Rideout. 

[Going  to  the  door  on  the  right  and  opening  it.]  Cert'nly, 
ma'am.  [As  Zoe  approaches.]  The  hot  water  flows  cold 
for  a  few  seconds,  ma'am. 


484  MID-CHANNEL  [act  iv 

ZOE. 
Is  there  any  scent? 

Rideout. 

There's  some  eau-de-cologne  on  the  dressing-table,  ma'am. 
[She  disappears  and  Rideout  closes  the  door  and  con- 
tinues his  preparations  for  removing  the   tea-things. 
Leonard  returns. 

Rideout. 

[Answering   a   look    of   inquiry   from    LEONARD.]       Mrs. 
Blundell's  tidying  herself,  sir. 

Leonard. 

Oh,  yes.     [Moving  about  the  room,  irritably.]     Won't  she 
have  some  tea? 

Rideout. 
I  did  ask  her,  sir.     She's  had  it. 

Leonard. 
[Halting.]      Did  Mrs.  Blundell — say  anything,  Rideout? 

Rideout. 
[Folding  the  table-cloth.]      Only  that  she  wanted  to  see 
you  just  for  ten  minutes,  sir,  and  that  she  thought  she'd  wait. 
And  then  she  wrote  on  her  card  and  told  me  to  slip  it  into 
your  hand  if  I  got  the  opportunity. 

Leonard. 
[Resuming  his  walk.]     Yes,  yes. 

Rideout. 
[After  a  pause.~\     What  time'll  you  dress,  sir  ? 

Leonard. 
Quarter  to  seven.    I  have  to  dine  at  half-past. 

Rideout. 
Which  suit  '11  you  wear,  sir? 


act  iv]  MID-CHANNEL  485 

Leonard. 
[Considering.']     Er — pink  lining. 

* 

RlDEOUT. 

Theatre,  sir? 

Leonard. 

Opera.     Two   pairs  o'   gloves.      [Rideout  goes   towards 
the  door  on  the  left,  carrying  the  tea-tray.]      Tss ! 

Rideout. 
Yessir  ? 

Leonard. 

There's  no  necessity  to  put  out  my  clothes  yet  awhile. 

Rideout. 
[Placing  the  tray  upon  a  piece  of  furniture  so  that  he  can 
open  the  door.]     No,  sir. 

Leonard. 
I'll  ring  when  you  can  come  through. 

Rideout. 
[Opening  the  door.]     Yessir. 

Leonard. 
And  I'm  not  at  home  to  anybody  else. 

Rideout. 
[Taking  up  the  tray.]      No,  sir.      [As  the  man  is  leaving 
the  room,  Leonard  comes  to  the  door  to  close  it.]     Thank 
you  very  much,  sir. 

[Rideout  goes  out  and  Leonard  shuts  the  door.  As  he 
turns  from  the  door,  his  eyes  fall  upon  the  waste-paper 
tub.     He  snatches  it  up  angrily. 

Leonard. 
[Reopening  the  door  and  calling.]     Rideout 


486  MID-CHANNEL  [act  iv 

RlDEOUT. 

[Out  of  sight.]     Yessir? 

[Rideout  presents  himself  at  the  door  without  the  tray. 

Leonard. 

[Shaking  up  the  contents  of  the  tub  and  then  giving  it  to 
Rideout.]     Burn  this  waste-paper. 

Rideout. 

Yessir. 

[Rideout  closes  the  door  and  Leonard  is  again  walk- 
ing about  the  room  when  Zoe,  carrying  her  hat, 
gloves,  and  bag,  appears  on  the  balcony  outside  the 
right-hand  window.  She  enters  and  they  look  at  one 
another  for  a  moment  without  speaking. 


Leonard. 

Hallo,  Zo ! 

Zoe. 

Hallo,  Len! 

Leonard. 

This  is  a  surprise. 

Zoe. 

[Putting  her  hat,  gloves,  and  bag  upon  the  round  table — 
nervously.]     Is  it? 

Leonard. 

I  thought  you'd  dropped  my  acquaintance  for  good  and 
all. 

Zoe. 
N — no,  Len.    Why  should  you  think  that? 

Leonard. 

Ha!     Well,  I  bear  the  marks  of  the  point  of  your  shoe 
somewhere  about  me. 


act  iv]  MID-CHANNEL  487 

ZOE. 

Oh,   you — you  mustn't  take  me  too  seriously  when   I'm 
in  one  of  my  vile  tempers.     [A  pause.]     I — I'm  not — keeping 

you ?* 

Leonard. 
No,  no. 

Zoe. 

[  Turning  the  chair  on  the  left  of  the  round  table  so  that 
it  faces  the  writing-table.]      May  I  sit  down? 

Leonard. 
Do. 

Zoe. 
I  was  here  three-quarters-of-an-hour  ago,  but  the  porter 
said  you  were  out;  so  I  went  and  got  some  tea.     [Sitting.] 
You've  been  entertaining,  according  to  Rideout. 

Leonard. 

[Turning  the  chair  at  the  writing-table  and  sitting  facing 
her.]     A  couple  o'  people  turned  up — old  friends 

Zoe. 
You  are  a  gay  dog.      [Suddenly,  staring  at  the  writing- 
table.]     Why — where — where  am  /? 

Leonard. 
You? 

Zoe. 
You  always  have  a  photograph  of  me,  standing  on  your 
writing-table. 

Leonard. 

O— oh,  it's 

Zoe. 

[Remembering.]     And  there  isn't  one  now — [glancing  at 
the  door  on  the  right]  in  your ! 


488  MID-CHANNEL  [act  iv 

Leonard. 
The  frames  had  got  beastly  shabby.     Rideout's  taken  'em 
to  be  done  up. 

Zoe. 

[Flatteringly.]     Honour?     [A  pause.}     Honour? 

Leonard. 

If — if  I  say  so 

Zoe. 

I  beg  your  pardon.  No,  you  wouldn't  out  my  photos  be- 
cause of  a — because  of  a  little  tiff,  would  you  ? 

Leonard. 

L— likely! 

Zoe. 

[Rising  and  going  to  him.]  I'm  sure  you  wouldn't,  dear 
boy;  I'm  sure  you  wouldn't.  [Again  there  is  a  pause,  during 
which   she   passes   her   hand   over   his   shoulder   caressingly, .] 

Len 

Leonard. 

Eh? 

Zoe. 

[Standing  behind  him.]  After  that — stupid  fall-out  of 
ours  this  morning — what  d'ye  think  I  did? 

Leonard. 
Did? 

Zoe. 

Ha,  ha!  I — I  took  it  into  my  head  to — to  pay  Theodore 

a  visit. 

Leonard. 

Pay  him  a  visit! 

Zoe. 
It — it  was  one  of  my  silly  impulses — I  was  so  upset  at 
having  offended  you 


act  iv]  MID-CHANNEL  489 

Leonard. 
Did  you  see  him  ? 

Zoe. 
Y — yes. 

Leonard. 

And  what  had  he  to  say  for  himself? 

Zoe. 
Oh,  I — I  made  such  a  mash  of  it,  Len. 

Leonard. 

Mash ? 

Zoe. 

Yes,  I — I  let  him  worm  it  out  of  me. 

Leonard. 
Worm  it  out  of  you? 

Zoe. 
Worm  it — all  out 

Leonard. 
Worm  what  out  of  you? 

Zoe. 

[Faintly.]      P- Perugia 

[There  is  a  silence,  and  then  Leonard  rises  with  an 
angry  look. 

Zoe. 
[Holding  the  lapels  of  his  coat.]  Don't  be  savage  with 
me,  Len.  It  wasn't  altogether  my  fault.  He  had  heard  of  it 
from  Claud  Lowenstein.  And  it's  of  no  consequence;  none 
whatever.  It's  just  as  you  said  this  morning — he  is  ready 
to  make  matters  smooth  for  us. 

Leonard. 
[Blankly.]     Smooth — for  us! 


490  MID-CHANNEL  [act  iv 

ZoE. 
Yes,  to  let  me  divorce  him.     He's  promised — he's  promised 
to  do  so,  if  you'll — only 

Leonard. 
[His  jaw  dropping.]      If  / ? 

Zoe. 

If  you'll  give  him  your  word  that  you'll  do  the  right 
thing  by  me. 

Leonard. 

The  right  thing ! 

Zoe. 

Marry  me.  [A  pause.]  I — I  suppose  he — I  suppose  he'll 
demand  to  see  you.  Or  perhaps  he'll  make  Peter  Mottram 
a  go-between. 

\Again  there  is  a  silence,  and  then  he  walks  away  from 
her.     She  follows  him  with  her  eyes. 

Leonard. 

[Thickly.]  But  you — you  wished  me  good-bye  this  morn- 
ing— finished  with  me. 

Zoe. 

[Clenching  her  hands.~]  I  know — I  know!  [Coming  to 
him.]  But  he — he  insulted  me,  Len — stung  me.  He  flung 
it  in  my  face  that  you — that  you'd  chucked  me;  that  I  was 
your  cast-off,  your  leavings.  I  couldn't  bear  it  from  him; 
and  I — I  told  him  that  you  were  all  eagerness  to  make  me 
your  wife.  [A  pause.]  Well!  And  so  you  were — this 
morning! 

[He  sits  in  the  chair  on  the  left  of  the  round  table,  his 
elbows  on  his  knees,  holding  his  head. 

Leonard. 
Zoe 


act  iv]  MID-CHANNEL  49 1 

ZoE. 

W-wliat? 

Leonard. 
These  people  I've  had  to  tea  this  afternoon — ladies — two 
ladies 

ZOE. 

Yes? 

Leonard. 
Mrs.  Pierpoint  was  one  of  them — and — and 


Zoe. 

Mrs.  Pierpoint ? 

Leonard. 
[Raising  his  head  and  looking  at  her.]      The  other  was 
— Ethel. 

Zoe. 

Eth-el ! 

Leonard. 
[In  a  low  voice.]     You — you  made  me  do  it. 

Zoe. 

[Dazed.]       I — I    made    you !       [Drawing    a    deep 

breath.]  Oh-h-h!  [She  turns  from  him  slowly,  and  seats 
herself  in  the  chair  at  the  writing-table.]  I — I'd  forgotten 
Ethel. 

Leonard. 
Yes,  you  persuaded  me  to  do  it.      [A  pause.]      Zo,  you 
egged  me  on  to  do  it. 

Zoe. 
[Quietly.]     You — you  didn't  lose  much  time,  did  you? 

Leonard. 
I — I  was  furious  when  I  left  you — furious. 


492  MID-CHANNEL  [act  iv 

Zoe. 

[With  an  attempt  at  a  smile.]  Why,  you — you  must 
have  bolted  straight  off  to  her. 

Leonard. 
I — I  went  to  the  club  and  had  some  food ;  and  then  I  came 
back  here  and  changed — and 

Zoe. 
Got  rid  of  those  photos! 

Leonard. 
I  was  furious — furious. 

Zoe. 

And  then  you — you  bustled  off  to  Sloane  Street!  [He 
rises  and  paces  the  room.  After  a  while  she  pulls  herself  to- 
gether.]    Oh,  well,  it — it  can't  be  helped,  old  boy. 

Leonard. 
[Agitatedly.]      It  must  be  helped;  it  must  be  helped.     I 
must  get  out  of  it ;  I  must  get  out  of  it.    Somehow  or  other, 
I  must  get  out  of  it. 

Zoe. 
Get  out  of  it? 

Leonard. 

The — the  Pierpoints ! 

Zoe. 
Oh,  don't  talk  such  utter  rubbish;  I'd  kill  myself  sooner. 
[He  throws  himself  into  the  chair  on  the  right  of  the  left- 
hand  window.]  No,  I'm  a  rotter,  Len,  but  I'm  not  as  low 
as  that.  Oh,  no,  I'm  not  as  low  as  all  that.  [She  rises  and 
goes  sloivly  to  the  round  table  and,  in  a  listless  way,  pulls  the 
pins  out  of  her  hat.]  I — I'll  be  toddling  home  now.  [Trac- 
ing a  pattern  on  the  crown  of  her  hat  with  the  hat-pins.] 
Home !     [Knitting  her  brows.]     I  shall  clear  out  of  that 


act  iv]  MID-CHANNEL  493 

— big — flashy— empty !     [Putting  on  her  hat.]     Ha,  ha! 

I  have  made  a  mash  of  it,  haven't  I !  My  father  always  said 
I  was  a  heedless,  irresponsible  little  puss.  [With  a  puzzled 
look,  her  arms  hanging  at  her  side.]     There  was  a  lot  o'  good 

in  me,  too — any  amount  o'  good ! 

[She  is  drawing  on  a  glove  when  she  turns  her  head  in 
the  direction  of  the  door  on  the  left.  At  the  same 
moment,  Leonard,  also  looking  at  the  door,  gets  to 
his  feet. 

Zoe. 

[Listening.]     What's  that,  dear? 

[4He  tiptoes  to  the  door,  opens  it  an  inch  or  two,  anR 
puts  his  ear  to  the  opening. 

Leonard. 
[Carefully  closing  the  door  and  turning  to  her.]     Blundell. 

Zoe. 
[Under  her  breath.]     Oh ! 

Leonard. 

[In   a  whisper.]      Don't  worry.      I've  told   Rideout 

[There  is  a  pause.  They  stand  looking  at  each  other  in 
silence,  waiting.  Suddenly  Leonard  returns  to  the  door  and, 
without  opening  it,  listens  again.  Curse  the  brute,  he  won't 
go! 

[He  faces  her  irresolutely  and,  in  a  panic,  she  picks  up 
her  bag  and  her  other  glove  and  runs  out  at  the  door 
on  the  right.  Leonard  is  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
when  the  door  on  the  left  is  thrown  open  and  Theo- 
dore and  Peter  enter  followed  by  Rideout.  Theo- 
dore and  Peter  have  their  hats  on. 

Rideout. 
[To  Leonard.]     I — I  beg  your  pardon,  sir 


494  MID-CHANNEL  [act  iv 

Leonard. 
[To  Rideout.]     All  right. 

Theodore. 

[To  Peter,  with  a  hoarse  laugh.]      You  give  the  man 
half-a-sovereign,  Peter;  that'll  soothe  his  feelings. 

Peter. 

[To  Theodore,  sharply.]     Sssh,  sssh!    Theo ! 

[Rideout  withdraws. 
Theodore. 

[Advancing  to  Leonard.]      Ho!     Not  at  home,  hey? 

Leonard. 
[Facing  him.]     No,  I'm  not;  not  to  you. 

Peter. 
You  be  quiet,  Ferris. 

Leonard. 

[To  Theodore.]     What  the  devil  do  you  mean  by  forcing 
your  way  into  my  place? 

Theodore. 

[Raising  a  walking-cane  ivhich  he  carries.]     You ! 

[Peter  quickly  puts  himself  between  the  two  men  as 
Leonard  seizes  the  chair  on  the  left  of  the  round- 
table. 

Peter. 

[To  Theodore,  endeavouring  to  get  the  walking-cane 
from  him.]  Give  me  that.  [To  Leonard.]  You  keep  a 
civil  tongue  in  your  head.  [To  Theodore.]  Give  it  me. 
[Holding  the  cane.]  You  know  what  you  promised.  Give 
it  up.  [Theodore  resigns  the  cane  to  Peter  and  walks 
away  to  the  fireplace  where  he  stands  with  his  back  to  the 
others.  Peter  lays  the  cane  upon  the  zuriting-table  and  then 
turns  to  Leonard.]     You  ought  to  be  ashamed  o'  yourself. 


act  iv]  MID-CHANNEL  495 

[Lowering  his  voice.]     You  see  the  man's  labourin'  under 
great  excitement. 

Leonard. 

[Sullenly.]  I  dare  say  a  good  many  people  in  London 
are  labouring  under  excitement.  That's  no  reason  why  they 
should  have  the  run  of  my  flat. 

Peter. 

[Coolly.]  Will  you  oblige  me  by  sittin'  down  and  list- 
enin'  to  me  for  a  moment? 

Leonard. 

Any  man  who  treats  me  courteously  '11  be  treated  cour- 
teously in  return.  [Sitting  in  the  chair  on  the  left  of  the 
round  table.]     I  can  do  with  you,  Peter. 

Peter. 
Can  you?     Then  you'll  be  so  kind  as  to  drop  addressin' 
me  by  my  christian-name.     [Sitting  in  the  chair  at  the  writ- 
ing-table.]     Ferris 

Leonard. 
[Curling  his  lip.]      Yes,   Mister  Mottram? 

Peter. 

Mrs.  Blundell  called  upon  her  husband  to-day — this  after- 
noon, about  three  o'clock 

Leonard. 
[With  an  assumption  of  ease.]      Oh?     Did  she? 

Peter. 

And  made  a  communication  to  him — a  communication  of 
a  very  painful,  very  shockin'  character.  [A  pause.]  I  pre- 
soom  you  don't  require  me — or  Blundell — to  enter  into  par- 
ticklers? 

Leonard. 

[In  a  low  voice.]     Oh,  for  heaven's  sake,  no. 


496  MID-CHANNEL  [act  iv 

Peter. 
We  may  take  it,  without  goin'  further,  that  what  Mrs. 
Blundell  has  stated  is  absolutely  the  truth  ? 

Leonard. 
Absolutely.     [A  pause.     Theodore  moves  from  the  fire- 
place to  the  left-hand  window  and  stands  there  staring  at  the 
prospect.]      One  thing,   though,  she  mayn't  have  stated   as 

clearly  as  she  might 

Peter. 

What's  that? 

Leonard. 

That  she — that  she's  an  injured  woman — badly  dealt  with 
by  her  husband,  and  worse  by  your  humble  servant ;  and 

Peter. 

And ? 

Leonard. 

And  that  both  Blundell  and  I  damn  well  deserve  to  be 

hanged. 

[Theodore  turns  to  Leonard  fiercely. 

Peter. 
[To  Theodore.]     Well!     Have  you  any  objection  to 

that? 

[Theodore  draws  himself  up,  as  if  to  retort;  then  his 
body  relaxes  and  he  drops  into  the  chair  on  the  left 
of  the  window. 

Peter. 

[To  Leonard.]     Now,  then!    Attend  to  me. 

Leonard. 

Yes? 

Peter. 

Obviously  it's  impossible,  after  what's  transpired,  that  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Blundell  should  ever  live  together  again. 


act  iv]  MID-CHANNEL  497 

Leonard. 
[SligMy  surprised.]     She  didn't ? 

Peter. 
I  believe  there  was  an  idea  that  her  husband  should  go  back 
to  Lancaster  Gate.     [With  a  wave  of  the  hand.}     But  we 
needn't  discuss  that.    We'd  better  come  at  once  to  the  object 
of  this  meetin'. 

Leonard. 

Object ? 

Peter. 
The  best  method  of  providin'  for  the  safety — and  happi- 
ness, we  hope — of  the  unfortunate  lady  who's  gone  and  made 
a  bit  of  a  munge  of  her  affairs. 

Leonard. 
[Steadily.]     Yes? 

Peter. 
[Deliberately.]       Ferris,    Mrs.    Blundell    has    given    her 
husband  to  understand  that,  if  existin'  obstacles  were  removed 
— if  she  were  a  free  woman,  in  point  o'  fact  you'd  be  willin' 
to  marry  her. 

Leonard. 
She's  correct. 

Peter. 
That  you're  keen  on  it. 

Leonard. 
[With  a  nod.]     Keen  on  it. 

Peter. 

Good.     [Dropping  his  voice.}     We're  all  tiled  here.    Are 
you  prepared   to  give  Blundell  your  word  of — of ? 

Leonard. 

Honour?     Can't  you  say  it?     [Hotly.]     D'ye  think  that 
because  a  fellow's  done  a  scoundrelly  act  once  in  his  life ! 


498  MID-CHANNEL  [act  iv 

Peter. 

That'll  do — your  word  of  honour.  That  bein'  so,  Blun- 
dell  undertakes,  on  his  part,  not  to  oppose  Mrs.  Blundell's 
action  for  divorce.  On  the  contrary [turning  to  Theo- 
dore.]    Theo ? 

Theodore. 
H'm? 

Peter. 
Your  word  of  honour? 

Theodore. 
[In  a  muffled  voice.]     My — word  of  honour. 

Peter. 
[To     Theodore    and    Leonard,   shortly.]       Thank'ee. 

And  both  of  you  empower  me  to — to  go  to  Mrs.  Zoe ? 

[A  pause.    Peter  turns  to  Theodore.]     Eh? 

Theodore. 
Yes. 

Peter. 

[To    Leonard.]       And    you?      [Leonard    is    silent.] 
What's  the  matter? 

Leonard. 
[After  a  further  pause,  slowly.]     Look  here.    I  don't  want 
either    of    you    two    men    to    suspect    me    of — of    playing 
double 

Peter. 
Playing  double! 

Leonard. 

I  tell  you  honestly — Mrs.   Blundell — Mrs.  Blundell   de- 
clines  

Peter. 
Declines ? 


act  iv]  MID-CHANNEL  499 

Leonard. 

Yes ;  she — she  refuses 

[Theodore  rises. 

Peter. 
[Also  rising — to  Theodore.]     Sssh!    You  keep  out  of  it. 
[To  Leonard.]     Ah,  but  you  haven't  seen  Mrs.  Blundell 

since ? 

Theodore. 
[To    Peter,   prompting    him.]      Since   she   left   me    to- 
day  

Peter. 
[To  Leonard.]     Since  she  left  her  husband  this  after- 
noon—  [a  pause]  have  you? 

Leonard. 
Y-yes;  I  have. 

Theodore. 
[To  Peter.]     Where? 

Peter. 
[To  Leonard.]     Where?     [There  is  a  further  silence. 

Theodore. 
[Under  his  breath.]    What's  this  game,  Peter?    [Loudly.] 
What's  this  game? 

Peter. 
[Restraining  him.]     Don't  you  interfere.     [To  Leonard.] 

Ferris 

Leonard. 

[Rising.]     Mottram — Mrs.  Blundell  called  on  me — about 

a  quarter-of-an-hour  ago.     We — we  were  talking  the  matter 

over  in  this  room  when  we  heard  Blundell  kicking  up  a  riot 

in  the  passage.     [Glancing  at  the  door  on  the  right.]     She — 


500  MID-CHANNEL  [act  iv 

she's  here.     [There  is  a  movement  from  Theodore.]     Mot- 
tram,  I  depend  on  you 

[Peter  looks  at  Theodore  ivho,  in  obedience  to  the 

look,  goes  back  to  the  fireplace.     Leonard  moves  to 

the  door  on  the  right  and  then  turns. 

Leonard. 

{Speaking  across  the  room  to  Theodore.]  Blundell,  I 
— I've  given  you  my  word  of  honour — and — and  I  abide  by 
Mrs.  Blundell's  decision.  [To  Peter,  pointing  to  Theo- 
dore.] Mottram,  I — I  depend  on  you — [He  opens  the  door 
and  calls  softly.]  Mrs.  Blundell — [There  is  no  response.] 
Mrs.  Blundell 

Theodore 

[Looking  down  into  the  grate.]  Call  her  Zoe.  [Laughing 
again  hoarsely.]     Why  the  devil  don't  you  call  her  Zoe? 

Leonard. 

[  Calling.  ]     Zoe 

[Still  obtaining  no  reply,  he  goes  into  the  next  room. 
Theodore  comes  to  Peter. 

Theodore. 
[To  Peter.]     Some  game  up,  hey? 

Peter. 
Sssh,  sssh! 

Theodore. 

What  is  it?    What  trick  is  she  up  to  now,  hey? 

[Leonard  reappears. 
Leonard. 

[Standing  in  the  doorway,  bewildered.]  I — I  can't  make 
it  out. 

Peter. 
What? 


act  iv]  MID-CHANNEL  501 

Leonard. 

She — she's  not  there. 

Theodore. 
Ha!     Hooked  it? 

Leonard. 

[Looking  towards  the  balcony.]  She  must  have  gone 
along  the  balcony  without  our  noticing  her,  and  through  the 
kitchen.     [Looking  at  Peter.]      She  must  have  done  so. 

Peter. 
Why? 

Leonard. 

You  know  there's  no  other  door 


[He  crosses  to  the  door  on  the  left.     As  he  gets  to  it, 
it  opens  and  RlDEOUT  presents  himself. 

Rideout. 
[In  an  odd  voice.]     Sir 

Leonard. 
[To    Rideout.]       Has    anybody    passed    through    your 


kitchen  ? 
N-no,  sir. 


Rideout. 


Leonard. 
[After  a  pause,  sharply.}     What  d'ye  want? 

Rideout. 
There — there's  been  an  accident,  sir. 

Leonard. 

Accident ? 

[At  this  moment  Theodore  and  Peter  turn  their  heads 
towards  the  balcony  as  if  they  are  listening  to  some 
sounds  reaching  them  from  a  distance.     Giving  Leon- 


502  MID-CHANNEL  [act  iv 

ARD  a  frightened  look,  Rideout  withdraws  quickly. 
Leonard  turns  to  Theodore  and  Peter  in  time  to 
see  them  hurrying  on  to  the  balcony  through  the  left- 
hand  window.  He  follows  them  as  far  as  the  window 
and  recoils  before  them  as  they  come  back  into  the 
room  after  looking  over  the  balustrade, 

Theodore. 

[Staggering  to  the  door  on  the  left.]  Oh,  my  God;  oh, 
my  God;  oh,  my  God !  [He  disappears. 

Leonard. 

[To  Peter,  shaking  a  trembling  hand  at  him.]  An  ac- 
cident! It's  an  accident!  [Coming  to  Peter,  appealingly.] 
An  accident! 

Peter. 

Yes — an  accident [Gripping  Leonard's  arm.]     She 

told  me  once  it  would  be  in  the  winter  time ! 

[They  go  out  together. 


the  end 


LIST  OF  PLAYS 

BY 

ARTHUR  WING  PINERO 

PUBLISHED  IN  THE 

UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


LIST  OF  PUBLISHED  PLAYS 

The  following  plays  by  Sir  Arthur  Pinero  are  published 
by  Walter  H.  Baker  &  Company,  5  Hamilton  Place,  Boston, 
Massachusetts.  These  plays  are  issued  in  paper  covers  and 
sold  at  fifty  cents  each.  The  arrangement  of  the  list  is 
alphabetical. 

The  Amazons  (1893) 

The  Big  Drum   (1915) 

The  Cabinet  Minister   (1890) 

Dandy  Dick    (1887) 

The  Gay  Lord  Quex   (1899) 

His  House  in   Order    (1906) 

The  Hobby  Horse    (1886) 

Iris   (1901) 

Lady  Bountiful    (1891) 

Letty  (1903) 

The  Magistrate   (1885) 

Mid-Channel    ( 1 909 ) 

The  Notorious  Mrs.  Ebbsmith  (1895) 

The  Profligate    (1889) 

The  Schoolmistress   (1886) 

The  Second  Mrs.   Tanqueray   (1893) 

Sweet  Lavender    (1888) 

The   Thunderbolt   (1908) 

The  Times  (1891) 

The  Weaker  Sex   (1889) 

A   Wife   Without  a  Smile  (1904) 

The  following  plays  by  Sir  Arthur  Pinero  are  published 
by  Samuel  French,  28  West  38th  Street,  New  York.    These 

505 


5o6  LIST  OF  PUBLISHED  PLAYS 

plays  are  issued  in  paper  covers  and  sold  at  fifty  cents  each, 
— with  the  exception  of  The  Money  Spinner  and  Playgoers, 
which  are  sold  at  twenty-five  cents  each. — 

In  Chancery   (1884) 

The  Money  Spinner  (1880) 

Playgoers   (1912) 

The  Princess  and  the  Butterfly   (1897) 

The  Rocket    (1883) 

The  Squire   (1881) 

The  following  plays  by  Sir  Arthur  Pinero  are  published 
by  the  Dramatic  Publishing  Company,  Chicago,  Illinois. 
These  plays  are  issued  in  paper  covers  and  sold  at  fifty  cents 
each. — 

The  Benefit  of  the  Doubt  (1895) 
Preserving  Air.  Panmurc  (1911) 
Trclawny   of  the  "Wells"   (1898) 

Certain  other  plays  by  Sir  Arthur  Pinero,  which  are  pub- 
lished in  London  by  William  Heinemann — such  as  The 
"Mind  the  Paint"  Girl  (1912),  for  example — are  difficult 
to  obtain  in  the  United  States. 

It  is  hoped  that  the  publication  of  the  present  Library 
Edition  may  stimulate  a  more  extensive  and  intensive  study 
of  the  hitherto  available  editions  of  the  plays  of  Pinero. 


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